


And the Gunslinger Followed

by twistedCaliber



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Divergent Timelines, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Porn With Plot, Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedCaliber/pseuds/twistedCaliber
Summary: Jesse McCree had found family with the Deadlock gang before he joined Blackwatch, and later Overwatch, and although he appreciates the second chance his life has been given, he can't help but miss the closeness. Gabe, ever-fond of his proudest achievement, convinces Jack to invite Jesse into their relationship to see if it might give him the fulfillment he's been searching for.
Slow-burn to establish characters, setting, and relationships in the first few chapters, but will eventually lead to multiple chapters of porn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It all started when I found [art by Reapthis76 on tumblr](http://reapthis76.tumblr.com/post/150045600793/jack-inviting-jesse-to-have-some-fun-with-him-and) with the prompt "Jack inviting Jesse to have some fun with him and Gabe." 
> 
> Started writing just to have that threesome, but I wanted to back up (a lot) and establish characterization for it to feel natural. I'll make it easy and give chapter highlights so you can easily find which scenes you're looking for if you're just here for the sex. At the moment I anticipate that the first porn instance will happen around chapter 7, with two more to follow.
> 
> This story exists with a slightly altered canon that tries to adhere to the in-game world (ie why Reaper and 76 can be on the same team in a fight), so to make it work we'll say that Blackwatch was disbanded and merged back into Overwatch and that the organization never fell. Jack is the sole commander, although Gabe still holds unofficial rank over most other members.

“Does that sound right, McCree?”

It took a moment for Jesse to realize he was being spoken to. Glancing up, he met the hardened eyes of Jack Morrison, peering at him from across the campfire. The dim orange light flickered across his face, embers wafting up into the cooling night air and dissipating into the sky among the early stars. Jesse stared at him, trying to recall the question.

“I, uh…m’sorry, sir. Does what-?”

“Deadlock, Jesse.” Gabriel Reyes’s voice cut across the quiet crackling of the fire, and Jesse’s head snapped to his left to where Gabe was sitting next to him. “Are they likely to keep to the same operation schedule?”

The memory came flooding back in with the help of Gabe’s follow-up. Deadlock’s smuggling plans, the ghost town just down the road on route 66, the quick late-morning ferrying to and from the gorge overlooking the train as it chugged slowly along the tracks just outside of town. It was all so familiar, habits that had seeded themselves so deeply into Jesse’s muscle memory that even now, years later, he could probably still do it in his sleep. That’s what they were banking on, anyway.

“It’s been a while since I ran with them, commander, but if they’re planning to move anything en masse it’ll be through here. ‘S the only place where they’ve got a long-enough stretch of train track.”

Jack met and held his gaze across the pluming smoke again, and Jesse would have flashed a winning smile if he weren’t so tired. Instead, he dully held Jack’s eye contact until the soldier seemed satisfied with the answer and turned to continue addressing the rest of the group.

“Working under the assumption that McCree’s intel is still good, they’ll be up and running by about 10 am. The train rounds the tracks at the west bend around 11:30, and the last car enters the tunnel in the gorge by 11:35. We’ve got a five-minute window to make this bust before they're gone.”

Everyone’s eyes were on Jack, but Jesse’s mind was wandering again. The cooling night air was slowly sinking into his skin, occasional breezes of dust off the plains blowing across their campsite and carrying vague notions of déjà vu to the gunslinger’s mind. Similar nights like these, years ago, gathered around a blazing campfire in an abandoned town. Voices laughing between swigs of the flask, Jesse perched on one of the barstools they had dragged out from the saloon the first time they pulled this heist. His guitar was slung in his lap, and although the firelight was too harsh to see the strings, his deft fingers plucked out the tune on their own, melting the tension of the coming morning. Someone was singing: someone else was wailing a drunken duet. There was a comforting, warm hand squeezing Jesse’s shoulder- the young outlaw looked up just in time to catch Hawthorne's fond gaze dart away. His own smile had not wavered in half an hour and he barked out a joyful laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as his hands strummed away. It was likely already past midnight, but the warmth from the roaring fire was keeping the cold desert air away-

Jesse jumped, his conscience slamming back to the present as something cold seared through the skin on his right arm. Jesse glanced down: his skin was covered in goosebumps and his arms had crossed to try to ward off the chill. The cold metal palm of his left hand was tucked against his right arm. He felt a pang of nostalgia as he flexed his prosthetic hand, remembering the way the guitar’s strings had pressed lines into the pads of his fingers.

It had been a long time since he was last able to play.

Jesse heaved a shuddering breath, feeling the cold air snap into his lungs. The roaring Deadlock bonfire was gone- instead, Overwatch’s small campfire crackled low to the ground a few feet from where he was sitting. Small enough to see by, but not to be seen. It was Jack’s idea.

Jack was staring at him again.

Jesse glanced around, pulse picking up as he suddenly realized that the rest of the team was watching him expectantly. His panicked eyes jumped from one dimly-lit face to the next. Mercy’s expression was more sympathetic than the others’, and he lingered on her briefly, trying to read her for a clue.

“McCree, I’m beginning to question your reliability for this mission-”

“No, Jack- commander! I’m fine, I just…I’m just tired.” Jesse blinked a few times at the fire, trying to bring his mind out of the fog. Focus, McCree. Get it together. Answer the question. Jack’s question- what was the question?

Gabe spoke up again from his left, and Jesse focused on the familiar tone to pull him back into the moment. “We plan to move out by 9:30. Give Deadlock some time to stage the weapons near the drop-point above the tracks. Ambush them when they’re out in the open. Sound doable, Jesse?”

There was a beat, everything quiet except for the soft crackling of the kindling at the base of the fire. No one said anything. Gabe’s words hung in the air expectantly, awaiting an answer. Jesse wasn’t sure if that was Jack’s original question, but he finally nodded in response to Gabe’s plan and left his response at that. He could feel Jack’s stare boring into him, possibly in suspicion or uncertainty or something else, but Jesse just gazed pointedly into the fire, trying to focus his tired eyes.

Finally, Mercy spoke up, her calm voice a welcome blessing to ease the growing tension. “We have all had a long day. There’s no sense in staying up any longer- we should try to get some rest.” At first, no one moved, except for Hana who just idly pulled her marshmallow stick away from the fire to examine its color.

Jack was the first to respond. He heaved a deep sigh and pushed himself up off the ground, languidly stretching his arms above his head. “You heard her. We’re all tired: let’s get some rest. That’s an order.”

There were some murmurs of agreement, and slowly the rest of the group followed the commander’s lead. Hana plucked the marshmallow off the end of her stick and shoved it into her mouth before flinging the stick away into the scrubland, earning a stern look from Reinhardt. The mech pilot just giggled, good-naturedly reaching up to wipe a smear of marshmallow from the man’s own face. Reinhardt’s expression lightened immediately and he chortled, ruffling her hair affectionately.

Jesse remained seated, absently watched the familial closeness. His mind had already begun to drift again, although his exhaustion kept him from pulling in any old memories. Instead, he just gazed into the fire, vision blurred as his eyes relaxed into a distant focal point beyond the glowing embers. His mind was shutting down for the night, he could feel it. Another chilling breeze danced across the campsite and bit into his skin, but he had already turned too far inward to feel it. The cold was distant.

He barely realized when Gabe doused the fire and plunged the site into darkness. Jesse’s vision went black for a minute until his eyes could re-adjust to the starlight, and when he finally came back to his senses, Gabe was patiently extending a hand to the gunslinger. Jesse reached out to grasp it, and Gabe hoisted him to his feet, firmly planting a steadying hand on Jesse’s shoulder until the younger man found his footing.

“Y’alright, kid?” Gabe asked once Jesse was steadied. Jesse glanced around the dark, catching the after-images of light spots at the corners of his vision. Jack was ducking into his tent. Mercy had already slipped into her sleeping bag, although the zipper on her tent was still open. Hana was giving Reinhardt a good-night hug, her tiny arms wrapped as far as they could around his hulking figure. Eventually she peeled herself away and clambered up into the cockpit of her mech for the night, Reinhardt kneeling down and crawling into the tent next to Mercy as quietly and carefully as he could before zipping up the flap. The campsite went still.

Gabe’s warm hand was still on Jesse’s shoulder, a small comfort against the cold desert air.

“I’ll be fine, sir.”

“I’m not your commander, Jesse.” Gabe reminded, voice maybe just a hint more bitter than he intended. “Get some sleep. Jack’s orders.”

“Right, sorry- Reyes. Gabriel.”

Gabe patted Jesse’s shoulder and turned to disappear into the tent after Jack. Maybe it was just the residual light spots floating at the edges of Jesse’s vision, but the man seemed to dissipate into the dark like Reaper, even off the battlefield. Jesse remained standing where he was for a moment longer, surrounded by the still silence, before another breeze rose from the plains below and sent more goosebumps across his skin. The chill broke his absent trance and he resigned, retrieving his sleeping bag and laying it out next to the extinguished campfire. He heavily moved through the motions of pulling off his boots, gingerly placing his hat under his head as a pillow, and tucking himself into the familiar warm cocoon.

Lying on his back, the gunslinger watched his breath puff in clouds against the emerging stars until his tired eyes closed and the quiet world around him faded away, letting him descend into much-needed sleep.

 

\---

 

It was probably only two hours later when Jesse woke. He lay still, letting his senses come to life and trying to pinpoint what had roused him without moving. The smell of the campfire was mostly gone, the only trace being the residual smoke left on his own skin and clothes. He probably should have washed it off before climbing into bed clothes and all, but the smell was honestly a bit comforting and he didn’t mind having it linger around until he had the chance to wash his clothing back at base. Plus, everyone else had gone to bed just the same.

Jesse’s ears picked up a quiet noise, and he silenced his thoughts to focus on the sound. Off to his right, a sort of sharp metallic _snik_. He stayed still, eyes closed, keeping his breathing deep and regular. An animal maybe? It could be a coyote sniffing around, probably lured in by Hana’s marshmallow residue on the stick she had chucked. But the sound came again and this time Jesse was sure it wasn’t an animal, so he cautiously opened his eyes to see.

It took a moment for him to locate the figure, but it moved and drew his eye to a shape standing on the overlook, silhouette black against the starry sky. Jesse recognized it almost immediately: fighting side by side long enough with someone trains you to identify them even through dim corridors and smoky battlefields; otherwise you risk the chance of mistakenly shooting an ally. Jesse watched as Jack tried again to light his cigarette, the spark briefly outlining his face as he sheltered the lighter in one cupped hand. Judging by the lack of the cigarette’s glow, he didn’t have any luck.

Jesse watched him for a moment longer, unsure whether he should be spying on the commander’s late-night smoke break. But Jack paused in his efforts, temporarily giving up, and turned his head over his shoulder ever so slightly.

“McCree, I know you’re up. Spare me a light.”

Jesse felt his blood rush and he sat up in his sleeping bag, the warm layers falling away from around his shoulders and exposing him to the early-morning air. He hesitated where he was, mildly embarrassed, but Jack jerked his head impatiently and Jesse reluctantly scrambled out of bed. Grabbing his lighter from his pocket, he padded barefoot the few yards to where Jack was standing near the overlook and offered a spark. Jack graciously accepted, taking a deep drag from the first few seconds of burn and exhaling slowly, his breath billowing out onto the breeze and disappearing into the night. Jesse watched the smoke trail away.

“How’d you know I was awake?”

Jesse’s question was met with a single, humored chuckle. Jack took another drag of the cigarette before letting his arm drop to his side, a few flecks of burning ash falling to the ground and snuffing themselves out. “You stopped snoring.”

Jesse smiled sheepishly, turning his gaze from Jack and instead staring out across the horizon. In the distance, a couple miles out, a bonfire was roaring in a ghost town on 66. Jesse watched the small pinprick of light, knowing it was too far away to see any details but still swearing he could see figures standing around the fire laughing, drinking, singing…

“What’s your deal, McCree?” Jack asked, piercing the almost-comfortable silence with a question that sent shivers down Jesse’s spine deeper than the seeping cold could reach. The gunslinger kept his eyes trained on the fire in the distance, but his expression faltered for a split second before he could regain his composure. He had no doubt Jack noticed, but the commander graciously waited for Jesse to respond without pressuring him. A small gesture, but appreciated nonetheless. Jesse took his time, imagining the scene around the bonfire miles away- remembering the scene around those bonfires, years ago.

“They were my family.” He stated, feeling his voice pinch unexpectedly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, feeling Jack’s presence beside him like a heavy weight on his shoulders. “They took me in. Let me do my thing, didn’t ask nothin’ more. Seemed to like havin’ me.”

It was easy to slip back into the warm memory of Deadlock, especially here in the desert. The scenery reminded him of their heists, galloping through ghost towns with their hoots and hollers ricocheting off the canyon walls, the hot desert sun warming the worn leather of his hat. Weaving in and out between broken cars and obsolete gas pumps, gliding across creaky floorboards through abandoned homesteads in search of valuable memories left behind. Ducking for cover as bullets tore holes into the rotting storefronts and shattered the anachronistic window displays, knowing that all they had to do was wait for the law to eventually make the inevitable mistake of reloading.

There was a closeness formed by camaraderie, binding them by the hearts that they wore on their sleeves, visible only for one another. They poured their souls out in the form of unspoken words around bonfires, felt it well in their chests with every clink of a flask, felt it weave through the air on the cool night breeze as they slept side by side under the stars. There was love shared among them all, and Jesse would be damned if he didn’t defend that love as nothing less than romantic.

Being outlaws pit them against the world in a way that no other experience came close to, and Jesse knew in his gut that despite joining Blackwatch, and later Overwatch, he could never feel this close to his teammates. This was only ever a job to them; this wasn’t their life, the team wasn’t their only family.

“It’s lonely here,” Jesse said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, as if uttering the revelation aloud would somehow betray Jack’s trust in him. He paused, mulling over his choice of words. “Everyone’s around, we’re all friendly, but…”

He trailed off, not bothering to finish the thought. The feeling was something deep inside his chest, a pain that throbbed in his heart that he couldn’t express no matter how many words he was given. It was overwhelmingly isolating and cold and wistful, nostalgic for something he had long ago that he knew he could never grasp again. His eyes stung and he realized tears were beginning to prick at the corners.

Jack silently extended the cigarette towards his companion, and Jesse gratefully took it from his fingers, taking a puff of smoke and feeling it burn in his throat before he shakily exhaled. He focused on the tremor in his fingers, waiting for it to even out. It never did. The cold probably didn’t help.

Jack let out something that might have been an excuse for a sympathetic hum. “We all have our own lives. We still have them, even after joining Overwatch. And we’ll still have them, to go back to if we leave.” Jesse shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, taking another drag from the cigarette before handing it back. The soldier nodded towards the bonfire in the distance.

“That was your life. You didn’t have something to go back to if you left- all the fulfillment you needed from a lifetime of experience, you felt you could get with them.”

Jesse wasn’t sure if Jack was belittling him or not, but as patronizing as his words might be interpreted, his tone seemed gentle, almost compassionate. The younger man absently reached up to scratch his neck, realizing with another flush of goosebumps that he had used his left hand to touch his bare skin. He shook it off and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, trying to draw into himself and shrink away from the cold, but the conversation had already opened his chest for the chill to sink in and wrack him. The starry sky above him suddenly seemed too big, too impossibly infinite, and the overwhelming futility of his longing made him feel dangerously, insignificantly small. His body shook deep from the core, and he could feel his lip tremble under the gravity. His mind was starting to wander outside of his body, and he struggled to bring it back but kept missing, instead landing on thoughts and memories that stung his heart with nostalgia. Emptiness ripped through him, and he could feel it pressing in, exposed out here under the cold, unyielding sky. The previously-calm night suddenly felt like he was swimming in an infinite sea of never-ending stars that crashed like waves over his head and pulled him down so that he couldn’t breathe, and dragged him farther and farther away from the present with every memory that flooded his senses, reminding him of the past, reminding him of the warmth he yearned to get back, filling his lungs with so much emotion that he choked on a silent sob. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t claw his way back to something solid to hold on to, back to stability and to warmth and love and to people who knew him better than he knew himself when he got lost so that he didn’t have to wonder who he was without human connection, and he couldn’t BREATHE-

The touch of Jack’s warm hand on his shoulder was enough to send Jesse tipping over the edge, and he turned into the soldier’s body heat and heaved against his shoulder in a dry, silent sob. He pressed through the shudders, the crushing weight of his aching homesickness rocking him in waves of primal anguish. Jack didn’t move, letting the younger man yell soundlessly against his shoulder until Jesse’s pain was finally released enough that he could actually cry. Jesse felt pathetic, felt raw and bare in a way that he had never hoped to expose, and he pressed his palms into his eyes, shielding himself. But Jack continued to hold him steady, not asking questions, letting Jesse ride out the cascade until the tidewaters began to retreat. Jesse’s breathing was rapid and shallow, struggling to pull air into his lungs, but his mind was slowly coming back to his body, and as he began to calm down, his surroundings came back to him.

Jack’s hand was rubbing small, repetitive circles over his back, and the feeling was so unexpected that Jesse temporarily focused on it to the exclusion of everything else. There was a sort of roughness to it, maybe caused by the friction of his undershirt against his skin, but the over-stimulation was one of the first things to break through his mental fog and pull him back into his own body. He was suddenly aware of the pressure against his shoulders, where Jack was holding him. He was aware of his own weight, heavy on his feet. His frozen feet. Jesse’s breathing hitched and he took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs. He pushed further, trying to suck as much in as he could and fill his diaphragm, and his body interpreted it to trigger a yawn.

A buzzing in his head faded in and Jesse winced, pressing his fingers to his temple and trying to rub away the headache. Jack cautiously disengaged, letting Jesse have some room to re-settle himself. He offered the cigarette again, but the gunslinger waved it away dismissively, shaking his head. The smoke would be nice, but in this moment Jesse just wished for the familiar, comforting taste of his own cigars. Jack dropped the butt to the ground and snuffed it out with his bare heel.

They stood in silence for a bit longer, Jack’s hand still on Jesse’s shoulder- whether it was a lingering gesture of empathy or a precaution against Jesse’s still-wobbly balance, the younger man wasn’t sure. But he was grateful regardless.

They watched the bonfire in the distance until it finally went out.

Jack drew a breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. “You gonna be alright for tomorrow?”

Jesse dipped his head, looking down at the vague darkness around his feet. He was too drained to consider the question properly. “Yeah,” he replied, hoarse voice barely above a whisper.

Jack nodded, seemingly satisfied, even if Jesse’s answer didn’t sound very convincing. “We should probably get back to sleep. There’s a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

It was Jesse’s turn to nod reluctantly, still looking down. He felt Jack turn and leave from his side, the empty space next to him filling with a cool breeze. Jesse took one last glance out across the dark, sprawling desert below them, then turned to head back to his sleeping bag near the long-extinguished campfire. Jack was just a shape in the darkness by his tent by the time Jesse started preparing to settle himself down.

“Bring your stuff, kid,” Jack declared, and Jesse hesitated where he was, one leg awkwardly half-tucked into the sleeping bag. His confusion must have been obvious, and Jack graciously clarified without having to wait for a stammering “what?”

“Bring your bag in. It’s too cold to be sleeping out here by yourself.”

There was a pause, and Jesse stared into the darkness where Jack’s figure was still crouched by the tent flap. The commander lifted the flap, shaking the zipper impatiently, and Jesse snapped to his senses. Rocking to his feet, he gathered his sleeping bag in his arms and padded quickly over to the two-person tent. He hesitated as he neared, letting Jack duck in first before he kneeled down and crawled in behind him.

The air inside was already significantly warmer, and Jesse let his eyes adjust until he realized that the mass to the far-left was Gabe’s sleeping body. Jack zipped up the tent flap after them, shifting his own sleeping bag away from Gabe’s so that there was a small strip of space between them. He patted the ground with one hand, and Jesse gratefully laid out his sleeping bag between his current and former commanders, crawling a bit ungraciously to the opening at the top so he could shimmy down into the cocoon. Jack settled in beside him, and Gabe readjusted himself slightly to the extra body in the cramped space.

Jesse could feel himself already beginning to shut down, his own body heat slowly sinking in to his sleeping bag and warming the trapped air. His body felt drained, his mind exhausted. He curled his toes and turned on his side, tucking his knees up to his chest as best as he could manage within the confines of the narrow space. The buzzing in his head started to melt away and he closed his eyes, feeling the weight on his body begin to lift as he slowly relaxed.

Gabe’s voice was soft and unstartling, and Jesse didn’t have the energy left to acknowledge it. “Jesus Jack, I could hear him wailing from in here. What did you say to him?”

“Barely a thing. Kid just had a lot on his mind.”

“Should we be worried?”

Jesse’s mind was already too melted to process the words, and instead he just resigned himself to let the smooth voices wash over him like gentle waves. Behind him, Jack shifted slightly and yawned.  Jesse had forgotten the words by the time Jack had finished speaking.

“Nah. He’s going to be okay.”

Jesse’s body let out a deep, contented sigh as his mind’s last threads on consciousness dissolved, and he gently drifted off to peaceful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“Commander!!”

Hana’s shrill scream pierced Jesse’s sleep and he sat bolt upright in his sleeping bag, eyes flying open in panic, messy hair still plastered to his face. On either side of him, Jack and Gabe both jolted from their slumber, Gabe accidentally smacking Jesse’s chest with his arm as he spun around to face the tent door. Jesse’s heart was pounding from being viciously ripped from deep sleep, and his fight-or-flight instincts were kicking up chaos in his body as he tried to figure out what was going on. As an afterthought, he spat a stray lock of hair from his mouth.

“Hana? What is it?” Jack shouted back, scrambling out of his sleeping bag and fighting with the tent’s zipper until he was able to tear the flap open, letting bright morning sunlight stream in. Jesse shielded his eyes against the glare with one hand, Gabe quietly hissing as he turned away.

“McCree’s gone!” Came Hana’s panicked response, and Jesse immediately grunted, flopping back down in his sleeping bag, wondering if it was possible for him to catch another few minutes of sleep after all. Maybe if he just closed his eyes he’d be able to fall right back into unconsciousness. “His sleeping bag’s missing but his hat and boots are still here! He wouldn’t leave without his hat, right? He must have been taken-!”

Jack groaned quietly, sitting back from the tent entrance, his adrenaline-fueled response fading. He loosely waved an arm, motioning in Jesse’s direction. “He’s fine. He’s in here.”

Jesse’s eyes were still stubbornly closed, trying to grasp at the fleeing traces of sleep as they slipped through his clutches like smoke. A shadow momentarily blocked the light from the open tent door, and Hana’s voice in closer proximity indicated that she had popped her head inside to look. “Oh! There he is! Sorry, commander.”

“It’s alright,” Jack replied, but Jesse could pick up the faintest hint of weariness weighing his words. Gabe snorted next to him and adjusted himself so he could sit up to rub sleep from his eyes. The commander glanced at his watch, looked to Gabe who just scowled, and smiled knowingly in silent response. “It’s about time for us to get up anyway. Gabe, do you think could you help get breakfast started?”

“Go make your own damn breakfast,” Gabe grumbled, but Jack had already left, and Gabe crawled out after him without much fuss, leaving Jesse alone in the middle of the tent.

He may in fact have managed to doze off again because the next time he came around, Jesse could distinctly smell bacon and oregano. It wafted in through the partially-unzipped tent opening like an enticing siren’s song and he roused himself, sitting up in place and twisting his shoulders to stretch out his lower back. He could feel his bed-head without even having to see it, and spent a minute running his fingers through his hair to smooth out the mess, before additionally brushing his beard back into some semblance of place. Finally satisfied, he rocked forward off of his sleeping bag to unzip the tent, and pushed out into the morning sun.

Gabe was sitting out front with Mercy beside him, hunched over a camp stove that was set up over top of last night’s doused charcoal. Jesse briefly wondered why they weren’t just using the campfire, before remembering that the smoke could be a giveaway now that they couldn’t hide in the cover of night. Jack was a few yards away, pulling out equipment and supplies from their traveling packs and setting them aside in carefully-organized piles. Reinhardt had just finished his plate of breakfast, and set it down next to Gabe with a hearty thank you before steeling himself for the ridiculously long process of suiting up in his armor. Hana was hovering near her mech, wet hair up in a neatly-wrapped towel and bright face freshly exfoliated. Jesse wondered where in tarnation she had found somewhere to bathe.

The gunslinger stood up tall, stretching his cramped legs and feeling the warming dirt sift between his toes, before sauntering over to his remaining belongings scattered near the campfire. Picking up his hat, he dusted it off and plopped it over his head, tilting the brim back with a practiced move.

“Good morning, McCree.”

Jesse flashed a smile at Mercy as he followed the smell of sizzling bacon and sat near her and Gabe at the stove, touching the rim of his hat with two fingers in his endearing half-salute. “Mornin’, partner.”

Gabe was in the process of sprinkling a mixture of diced tomatoes, peppers, onions, and spinach over the scrambled eggs currently simmering on the campstove. He glanced up briefly, catching Jesse’s eye. “You seem more like yourself this morning.”

“Feelin’ much better after some rest. Doctor’s orders did the trick,” he agreed, with a slight dip of his head to Mercy as she was getting up to leave. She turned a smile in his direction, melting Jesse’s heart.

“That makes one of us, at least. You snore like a dog,” Gabe responded, stirring the medley with a wooden spoon. Jesse’s bark of laughter earned him a small twitch of Gabe’s smile, and the gunslinger knew his complaint wasn’t serious.

“Sorry for crashin’ your tent last night. Jack woke me up and invited me in outta the cold, ‘m sure you weren’t expectin’ another person this mornin’.”

“It was my idea to get you, actually.” Gabe said, picking up the bottle of Tabasco to his left and sprinkling a few drops over the food before glancing up at Jesse expectantly. “How much?”

“You know how I like it, _jefe_ ,” Jesse replied, watching Gabe pour the bottle steadily for another five seconds. The juice sizzled on the heat, and Jesse could smell it lifting into the air, sharp and savory. His mouth watered. “You were awake?”

“Jack and I were up talking.” Gabe said simply, taking the pan off the stove and spooning the contents into a sear-warmed tortilla. He threw a few slices of bacon in lengthwise, added cheese, then folded it over and pressed it back on the heat. “I know you’re used to sleeping under the stars, but I figured it might get too cold. Jack didn’t really want to wake you.”

Jesse mulled this over as Gabe finished the food and handed him his plate, pulling it close to his face and letting the tang fill his nose before setting it down on his knees. He carefully picked up the wrap and not-so-ceremoniously shoved nearly half of it into his mouth at once. “So why didn’t ya come get me yourself?”

Gabe started making another set of eggs on the stove. “And freeze my balls off? Hell no, I was staying in that tent where it was warm! Screw your frozen ass.”

Jesse covered his mouth with one hand and laughed through his food, catching the twinkle in Gabe’s eye as the other man chuckled and continued preparing his own breakfast. Jesse smiled to himself, taking another bite and chewing quietly as he watched Gabe’s mastery at the campstove. Around them, the rest of the team was starting to pull the tents down, wordlessly consolidating their campsite in practiced synchronization.  It was a comfortable silence, Gabe’s food hissing quietly in the pan as he finished up and turned off the heat.

“Say... Gabriel?”

Gabe grunted in acknowledgment but kept his attention focused on transferring his wrap to his own plate. Then, almost as an afterthought; “You can call me Gabe, you know. We’re equal rank.” Jesse looked down, inspecting the last bite of his own food diligently. Although it was true that they were both now equally-ranked under Jack, it was hard to dismiss the respect he had garnered for the other man during their time together in Blackwatch. Old habits die hard, he guessed, but he figured he could try.

He was stalling.

“I guess I just…wanted t’ thank ya,” Jesse said, finally. His voice was soft, but seemed loud to his own ears as Gabe slid his tortilla off the hot stove, quieting the pan’s sizzle. His words hung in the dead space by themselves until slowly the background noise of the camp breaking down filtered in, filling the new silence, but Jesse’s words still felt heavy in the air. “For thinkin’ of me, last night,” he added for clarification, trying to talk over his own discomfort.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” Gabe chided. “Even in Blackwatch, you didn’t always know your own limits. Remember that time you thought you could swim across the river but ended up nearly drowning?”

Jesse’s face flared in indignation. “Only ‘cause I didn’t come up for air! Figured keeping my head under would keep anyone from spottin’ me,”

“Yeah, and if I hadn’t come in after you, no one WOULD have spotted you since,” Gabe declared. Jesse shoved the last of his breakfast into his mouth to give himself an excuse to not respond.

“McCree!” Jack’s call interrupted them, and both Gabe and Jesse turned around. The commander was standing by their tent, amidst a small pile of assorted belongings, one of which was Jesse’s sleeping bag. “We’re packing up! Come get your stuff.”

Jesse turned back briefly to Gabe, giving him an apologetic look for being called away. Gabe waved dismissively in Jack’s direction. “It’s fine, go get your things.”

Jesse nodded, picking his plate off his knees before getting to his feet. He handed the plate back to Gabe, who took it and placed it gingerly with the other used cutlery to be cleaned. As Jesse turned to leave, Gabe stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Jesse’s expression must have betrayed his initial confusion, because Gabe continued after a second’s pause. “For thinking of you, last night,” He clarified, his wording similar to Jesse’s phrasing from earlier. There was an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes, and Jesse felt the faintest rush of blood creep into his ears.

“…Partner.” He acknowledged after a slight moment of hesitation, tipping his hat to hide his face as he smiled and left to gather his belongings.

 

\---

 

It took them thirty-three minutes to finish packing, gear up, and move out. McCree quickly settled into his clothes, stomping his boots on one at a time and carefully wrapping his serape over his shoulders, before pulling out a cigar and lighting its end. The arduous task of helping Reinhardt into his armor took at least ten minutes of everyone’s time, despite the man humbly insisting that he was able to do it himself. D.Va ran through her mech’s boot-up sequence as she finished cleaning herself up and adjusting her pilot suit, then logged in to her stream and prepared to go live. Mercy helped Gabe finish up at the campstove before getting dressed and checking that her caduceus staff was fully-charged, then tested the float of her wings by zip-launching herself around the site from one person to the next. Gabe roamed away for a bit by himself before Reaper eventually came gliding back, quick-drawing a gun at McCree’s head from across the campsite in a mock-duel. But McCree had already beat him to it, matching Reaper’s aim with his own six-shooter before they both nodded in acknowledgment at one another and re-holstered their weapons. Jack was the last to suit up, the activation and illumination of his visor unofficially marking the beginning of the mission.

It was 9:30 on the dot as they left the now-barren campsite behind, nothing but tent stake holes in the ground and footprints in the sand to indicate that anyone was ever there. The company’s spirits were high at first, easy-going conversation and banter keeping the mood light as they descended from the rocky hillside and started out across the lowgrounds, carrying their few belongings on their back and stowing the rest of the supplies in the spare space in D.Va’s mech.

But as the sun rose higher and warmed the red-baked ground, hot desert breezes dusted their faces and the talk died out in favor of pressing on quietly through the swelter. McCree wasn’t as bothered by the heat; growing up in this environment had adapted him well to its temperature. His hat protected his head and shielded his eyes from the sun, and his serape shaded his body and kept dust from settling on his shoulders as it flapped lightly in the breeze. His chaps, open at the backs, allowed air to circulate around his legs and kept his pants from sticking too heavily to his thighs. He cast a sly glance to his left where Reaper was trudging beside him, thick black-clad layers looking mighty heavy under the rising sun, his stoic mask absolutely _seething_ with loathing. Occasionally, Reaper would dissipate from the harsh sun and glide further up ahead to a shady spot where he would silently wait for the rest of the group to catch up, arms crossed and visibly disgusted by the heat. Soldier 76 would give him the middle finger every time the rest of the group drew close enough, which Reaper would return haughtily each time without fail.

Reinhardt plowed alongside them like a true MVP, never once complaining.

It took them just over an hour and a half to reach the outskirts of the ghost town, city limits marked by a bullet-riddled billboard that welcomed them to Deadlock Gorge. They paused at the sign, dropping their supplies behind a pile of rubble and rocks, and switching on their communication earpieces. 76’s mission brief crackled through their headsets as the group gathered around.

“Same as we planned, team. It’s a bit past 11 now; they should be in the middle of transporting the weapons to the overhang above the gorge. The train will pass by in about half an hour, at which point they’ll be dropping the cargo down to the cars. Mercy, Reinhardt, you’re with me: we’re going to lead in and rush Deadlock when we get to their staging area. D.Va will stick with us until the train comes: if they try to drop down into the gorge to escape, I need you to go down there after them. McCree, I want you and Reaper bringing up the rear, flanking from a height advantage and picking off any backup that tries to show up. Don’t get lost, don’t fall over the edge onto the tracks, and don’t die. Got it?”

Everyone nodded, and the soldier straightened up. “Take care out there, everyone. See you when it’s over.”

The team took a few extra minutes to ensure that they were ready before finally heading off, McCree hanging back a bit. They passed another welcome sign, then a small crumbling shed whose structural integrity was about as solid as Reaper when he shadow stepped. They started to pass more and more buildings as they got closer to the town proper, all in varying states of collapse depending on when they were built. Eventually the dirt-packed road turned to old grey pavement, sun-bleached and cracking in the dust, and McCree immediately felt the difference under his feet as the soles of his boots clacked onto the surface for the first time in years. His stride faltered for a split second, a wave of déjà vu washing over his memory, and he sucked sharply on the smoke from his cigarillo to focus his mind on something else, something present. Reaper noticed and turned his mask in the gunslinger’s direction, tilted ever-so-slightly as if to ask “ _is everything okay?_ ” McCree nodded and waved one hand, brown eyes focusing on the toes of his boots as they stepped one in front of the other into the town from his past.

They walked briskly for about a quarter mile before eventually the main group slipped away behind a row of buildings, and McCree and Reaper took the fork in the opposite direction, splitting off to go scout out a vantage point from which they could flank the rear. The two men ghosted through the dust in silence, Reaper occasionally signaling with gestures that McCree understood and followed as if it were a born instinct. Soon, they came up to the back of a row of connected buildings, following along the splintering wood siding until they were crouched behind the corner-most one. Reaper held up one hand and McCree knelt at his side, ears pricked for sound. Other than the creaking of his leather chaps and the quiet scuff of Reaper’s boots in the dirt as he adjusted, they couldn’t hear anything. Satisfied, Reaper dropped his signal and they silently swung around the edge, backs turned to one another and guns drawn.

Apprehension settled in the pit of his stomach as soon as McCree rounded the corner of the dilapidated buildings, the empty main drag stretching out before him like tunnel vision. Familiar storefronts lined both sides of the dusty, cracked pavement, their overhangs shadowing the connected porches and recessed entrances. The contrast between the bright sun and the stuffy shade played tricks on McCree’s eyes, making it easy to imagine Deadlock members lounging against the wooden posts. He stared hard at them, but each time he blinked at one they vanished, re-appearing in his periphery like specters. Except for one, pulled straight from his memory:

He saw himself, younger and less scruffy, leaning against the rail in front of the saloon a few buildings down, elbows resting on the splintery trim.

“McCree, stay close,” Reaper whispered from behind him, but the gunslinger had already ducked across the street to the other side leaving only a trail of cigar smoke in his wake. He watched, captivated, as the memory tipped his hat down, blowing out a puff of smoke from around his cigarillo, and then turned and pushed off the railing, disappearing through the saloon’s swinging doors. McCree cautiously approached, gun drawn at his side, his footsteps thudding hollowly on the wooden planks and spurs clinking quietly in a way that he had only ever noticed when he was here.

He could hear Reaper hiss again from the shadows on other side of the street, but McCree ignored him, mesmerized. He neared the spot in front of the railing, remembering what it had looked like to lean against it just a moment before. He had been standing here, just seconds ago— years ago. Trance-like, he stepped into the dust where his footprints had been, re-experiencing the memory. The feeling was more than familiar; he could remember standing in this exact spot.

“McCree, get your ass back here,” Reaper’s warning crackled over the headset in his ear, but McCree pushed himself away from the railing and turned on his heel, disappearing into the saloon after the shadow of his former self.

The atmosphere in the saloon was still and quiet, diffused light filtering in through the front-facing windows and washing the nearest half of the room in a cool blue glow as the double-doors swung closed behind him. Dust motes hung in the air like bubbles deep underwater, and McCree instantly felt like the scene was in slow motion. The ambiance was delicate, untouched by time, preserved by dust that was thick as ash on every surface, ever broken shard of glass. He took a spellbound step, feeling the creaky floorboards dip under his weight as he left a footprint, like stepping in crisp virgin snow. He moved forward, gliding like a ghost through a graveyard of memories that rose from the ground as he passed, his reflection warping around the outsides of the empty glass bottles sitting on the counter. He cautiously holstered Peacekeeper, feeling safe in the space.

The past flickered in around him.

_He is sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his cigar in the other. The group of eight around him had their own drinks, a lost-and-found set of mismatched glassware that they had pulled from the saloon’s old cabinets. Empty beer bottles littered the bar just out of arm’s reach like duck pins, cleared away for a new round of drinks._

_Laughter filters in and the scene is no longer a silent film. They have been bantering, mood light with the help of booze-loose lips and good company. Another clink of the bottles, followed by another swell of laughter, and Jesse can’t sip his whiskey through his smile._

_“Damn good work today, McCree,” someone says, and Jesse looks up to meet his eyes across the rim of his glass._

_“Could say the same of you, partner,” Jesse responds, lifting his drink across the bar for a toast. Their glassware clinks together, hands brushing and lingering there. “Saved my ass a few times too, Hawthorne,”_

_Hawthorne grins and pulls his drink back, taking a swig. “Only returning the favor. You’ve gotta teach me how to shoot like that,”_

_Jesse chuckles, lifting his cigarillo to his lips and tasting the tobacco mix with the swill of his own drink. He holds the breath, closing his eyes and sinking into the moment before finally breathing out. “We already tried. Nearly shot your own foot, remember?”_

_Hawthorne laughs, a warm and hearty sound that makes the alcohol rise to Jesse’s cheeks. His eyes slide open and he watches Hawthorne’s hands around his bottle. He knows what those hands feel like— knows their weight on his shoulder, warm against the cold night air in front of the bonfire. His gaze flits up to meet Hawthorne’s._

_The other man holds his eyes. “Maybe we can try again sometime. I’ve already taught you so much; it’s only fair you return the favor.”_

_Jesse feels his lips twitch up into another lazy smile. “Maybe I can teach you somethin’ else instead, darlin’,” he drawls, and Hawthorne winks across the table at him._

_Someone to Hawthorne’s right is sliding into his lap, hand snaking to lift the bottle from his possession and bring it to their mouth. Jesse watches bemused as they indulge one another, sharing wet kisses over the bottle’s lip._

_“I’ve got something in mind,” Hawthorne muses through their tongues, and Jesse knows he’s talking to him despite being otherwise occupied. The gunslinger takes another drag on his cigar and holds the smoke, standing up on the footrest of his barstool and leaning across the counter. Hawthorne breaks his kiss and turns his head, meeting Jesse’s mouth as his lap-partner presses sloppy hickeys to the crook of his neck._

_Jesse parts his lips, and smoke flows into their kiss on his exhale._

The scene is left behind as McCree moves out of the room, hand curling around the banister as he takes the steps upstairs. The first floor slides out of view and he emerges on the upper landing, taking in the sight of overturned lounge furniture on the faded oriental rug. Sun-bleached curtains flutter in the broken windows, the only other thing that would be moving in the room being an ancient grandfather clock whose pendulum was long-stilled from years of neglect. McCree carefully picked his way around an upturned plush lounge chair, coming to stand in front of the clock’s dusty face. He stares at it, watching his own face reflect back at himself blurrily in the glass. The smoke from his cigar blends into the dust.

McCree turned away, trailing a gloved finger across the spine of a chair as he moves towards the bookshelf in the far corner of the room, passing framed paintings that hang askew off the wall. The shelf is mostly empty, except for a few books whose spines are too worn and cracked for him to be able to read, their pages curling like parchment. He gingerly touches one, afraid that if he picks it up it will crumble in his hands. He leaves it be and turns around, facing the stairs again—

_Jesse is lying on the rug, sprawled behind the couch near the bookshelf and gasping in pain through gritted teeth. His guts are on fire, pain radiating from the bullet lodged in his side anytime he moves. He tries to stay as still as he can but the room is spinning and his balance is unsteady, and he fumbles to load his six-shooter with his left hand as the other holds his side, but all the blood is making his bullets slippery and his grip too shaky._

_He hears footsteps coming up the stairs and hurriedly decides to forget about loading the rest of the chamber, cocking his three bullets into place. He takes a breath and steels himself before shifting position to sit up, feeling vertigo threaten to overtake him if the burning pain from his abdomen didn’t do him in first. Jesse lets out a gasp, muffled against the fabric of the couch, before clenching his jaw and willing his breathing to quiet so he can hear._

_The footsteps are at the top of the steps now, two sets of boots against the wood floor, and he can hear when they dampen as they step closer onto the patterned floor-rug. He waits just a moment before heaving himself to his feet, gun cresting the back of the couch before the rest of him does. He fires two shots, striking both soldiers in their heads, and they’ve hit the floor by the time Jesse doubles over from the sudden headrush from standing so fast. He leans against the couch, bracing his hips against the back, but blood is spurting through the fingers pressed against his stomach and he feels the nerve endings burn with light behind his eyes._

_There’s another set of footsteps coming up the stairs and Jesse stumbles, shakily raising his gun at the height where their head will appear on the landing. The figure breaks through the space and Jesse fires, but with a shock the gunslinger realizes that the soldier emerged crouched, and his bullet grazes the top of his head, lodging harmlessly into the wall. The soldier rounds the corner, firing a spray of shots of his own to disarm the outlaw, bullets riddling themselves into Jesse’s left arm as the gunslinger drops his weapon and spins from the force of the impact. Jesse falls to the ground with a loud “FUCK,” arm dangling limply at his side and his other hand clutching his bleeding stomach futilely. The soldier stalks into the room, scanning it for any more threats, but Jesse already knows there aren’t any more Deadlock members left fighting beside himself. The blood is pulsing from both his stomach and his arm now, but he bares his teeth at the man in warning as he approaches. The soldier gives him a disgusted look, keeping his gun trained on the downed man as he lifts a finger to the communication piece in his ear._

_“This is Commander Reyes. I found the last one; bring in a medic so we can get these assholes back to interrogation alive.”_

_Jesse is still snarling on the floor, but his grip on consciousness is faltering. His head swims and his vision is fading to black, but he locks eyes with the soldier defiantly until his consciousness finally fails. He collapses on the ground at last, bleeding out as Blackwatch operatives swarm the room and haul him away._

 

Reaper is standing at the top of the stairs.

McCree stares at the floor, the memory fading from his mind and replacing itself with the present. Reaper takes a hesitant step forward, lifting his mask to his forehead, and the gunslinger looks up to meet his gaze, so much different than it was all those years ago in this same room. He casts one last look around, seeing the faint red-brown stains on the wood under his feet, the bullet hole in the wall behind Gabe’s head, before sighing and moving to meet him at the staircase. He picks the stub of his cigarillo from his mouth and tosses it to the floor on his way, snuffing out the smolder with his boot.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it.” Gabe asks as he approaches, although they both know it’s not a question. Jesse just nods, resigned. Gabe reaches out to tentatively touch the prosthetic arm; just a gentle finger on the elbow, almost unsure of himself.

“I never said I’m sorry, did I? For messing up your arm.”

Jesse shrugs. “You did, actually. Once I decided to join Blackwatch and y’all fixed me up with a new one, you apologized. Said that if you’d known you were gonna take me under your wing-”

“-I wouldn’t have clipped yours.” Gabe finished, his smile full of regret. “God, McCree- Jesse. I’m so sorry. I wish there was a way to go back and undo it,”

“S’okay, partner. The arm’s the least of it, really. Just glad you didn’t decide to shoot me dead.”

Gabe’s expression sours. “Saved by your boyish good looks,” he said, but Jesse could tell his mind was troubled over the _what-ifs_. What if Gabe wasn’t crouched when he came up the stairs, Jesse wasn’t dizzy from bloodloss, and his bullet had hit him in the temple where he had planned? What if Gabe’s own return-fire had hit him just a little closer to his chest?

What if Gabe hadn’t seen the wild, untamed spark of rebellion in Jesse McCree when the outlaw was sitting across from him in the interrogation room, left arm amputated, spitting in his face? What if Jesse had been sent to prison with the rest of the Deadlock gang, to live out the remainder of his life behind bars?

But that hadn’t happened.

Instead, Gabe had seen something promising in the insolent spitfire that was Jesse McCree as the twenty-some glowered up at him from under the brim of a cowboy hat. Instead, Gabe had extended a hand to Jesse across the interrogation table, offering him a second chance.

As much as Jesse missed what he had with Deadlock, joining Blackwatch was the best opportunity he was ever given to make up for it, and he had done his best to use it to turn his life around and become the man he wanted to be. He was grateful that Gabe had given him that gift.

“Look, _jefe_. Don’t worry your pretty little head ‘bout my arm, and don’t think about what woulda happened if it’d gone different.” Jesse assured him, wrapping his hand around Gabe’s side to give him a quick one-armed hug. “I appreciate what ya did for me. I owe you one.”

He lingers a second and is about to pull away from the friendly squeeze when Gabe’s arms loop around his shoulders and Jesse is pulled in to a true, deep hug. The slight height difference tucked Jesse’s face against Gabe’s shoulder and he smiled to himself, bringing both his arms up around Gabe’s back to return the warm embrace. Gabe held on for a moment longer, not speaking, and the gunslinger was content to let him have whatever catharsis this gave him. It was comforting for himself, too, Jesse admits.

Finally, Gabe pulls back. “You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he says, holding Jesse at arm’s length with one hand on his shoulder as the other reaches up to pull his mask back down. The mask slides over his face, but Jesse can hear the grin in his voice behind the visor. “Now let’s go catch some criminals, cowboy.”

McCree returns the smirk, cocking a finger-gun at Reaper’s mask and shooting him a wink. “Right behind ya, partner.”

They turn and head back down the stairs, McCree throwing one final look at the empty bar as they leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah sorry for the delay, I've been working diligently on my Junkrat cosplay for an upcoming con. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I tried not to take the easy way out and skip over a good fight scene.

Reaper and McCree step out from the saloon in silence, McCree pushing the resurfacing memories from this place to the back of his mind and Reaper letting him do so in peace. Reaper is leading the way, gliding along the ground so smoothly that it’s almost impossible to tell whether he’s floating or not, except for the faint trail of dust that his boots kick up from the ground and leave hanging in his wake for McCree’s own shoes to pass through. They moved across the main drag together in silence, splitting up once they reached the cover of the porch on the other side, McCree slipping around behind the building while Reaper kept to the shadows under the overhang.

He was alone again.

The gunslinger crept low through the piles of debris, carefully stepping over discarded cans and bottles, Peacekeeper drawn at his side and trigger-finger disciplined. The area behind the row of storefronts was abandoned, moreso than the rest of the town, and although he kept his guard up, it was obvious that no one had passed through this way in quite a long time. Low-growing drybrush overtook most of the shade up against the buildings, eking out an existence by sapping whatever rainwater ever collected along the gutters and ran under the foundations. The gnarled branches scraped lightly at his chaps as he moved past, leaving small hairline scratches on the leather.

He maneuvered past a few more buildings, catching glimpses of himself in the reflections on broken windows, and paused at the end of the row. In the distance, he can make out some faint sounds, echoing and distorted as they bounce off the canyon walls. McCree moved stealthily forward, ears turned toward the sound, drawing a map of the area from his mind and trying to pinpoint its source.

Soldier 76’s voice cut in through his intercom, painting the picture for him just as he rounded the corner and spotted the scene for himself.

“Reaper, McCree, we’re in position between the buildings closest to the outcropping. Deadlock has a pile of crates- weapons, we’re assuming- stacked close to the edge. Looks like six gang members; four visibly armed standing along the ledge; two are working on priming the crates to drop to the train. They’ve got a pulley system of some sort; there may be more members already down below in the gorge, we can’t see from here.”

“There’s two down below,” Reaper replies, and McCree glances around, wondering where he is that he has a view of the bottom of the ravine. “They’re suspended, probably won’t be able to come up right away.”

The suspension pulleys were new, but McCree figured that running horses alongside a moving train to transfer weapons to the cars probably got messy after a while. Dropping whole crates down with ropes seemed a hell of a lot easier.

“Alright, so eight in total. We can take them on from here, although if they move behind the crates we’ll no longer have a clear shot. If they try to flank us, we’ll need you to take them out. Watch our backs.”

“You got it.” Reaper replied, and McCree caught a small movement across the way on a second-story parapet that betrayed the spirit’s location. Reaper ducked away from the edge, pausing to throw an acknowledging nod in McCree’s direction, before disappearing back into the building. McCree nodded back, sweeping his thumb over Peacekeeper’s hammer in anticipation.

“We’re ready when you are, boss,” the gunslinger said, digging his footing into the dirt and coiling his weight to strike.

“Let’s kick some ass,” 76 grunted, and gunfire broke out.

 

\---

 

McCree swung out from around the corner, firing into the crowd of Deadlock members as they quickly scrambled to return fire. He was about 50 yards from them, Soldier 76’s group charging into the fray perpendicularly about 20 yards closer. McCree fired off another shot, strafing slightly as Reinhardt’s shield went up so that he was partially behind it, even at the distance. Reaper materialized from a doorway on the other side of the fight, shotguns firing in the direction behind the crates.

The Deadlock members had bolted, the two near the crates having ducked behind cover and the other four retreating along the ledge, pinned by the drop and the approaching gunfire. D.Va darted out from behind cover, rushing ahead at an angle to head them off from being able to evade into the safety of the buildings. Blocked from two angles, the Deadlock members backed up closer to the ledge, fighting back before one of them dropped from an accurate headshot. They scattered then, weaving and dodging until two were able to slip past and one more fell to the ground. McCree picked off another as the gang member made a dash for cover, firing Peacekeeper with a steady aim. The remaining Deadlock outlaw suffered a graze to the arm but managed to slip away to safety. McCree readied himself to go cut him off, but his attention was suddenly pulled away by the sound of approaching hooves.

He ducks and rolls, pressing his back up against the wood siding of the nearest building just as the riders rounded the corner. A decent number of them– maybe ten or more– come charging towards the skirmish, weapons drawn. A small explosion goes off a few meters from D.Va’s mech, betraying the fact that the backup has frag grenades at their disposal. D.Va jets out of the way of another explosion just in time as the ground blows up where she had been standing.

“Watch your six!” 76 shouts, spinning behind Reinhardt to face their new opponents. The distance between them was closing fast, and as they draw up, half of Deadlock dismounts and engages on the ground. Voices are shouting, horses are rearing, gunfire is ringing out along the canyon walls. Blood is sprayed and pooling on the ground, bodies are partially-obscured by the rising dust. McCree darts forward, rushing a Deadlock member on horseback as they ride past. He reaches up and grasps the outlaw’s arm, hooking it with his own weight, and spins them off of their mount. They both hit the ground as the horse canters off, McCree instantly rolling to his feet and placing a bullet in their chest.

D.Va’s mech mows through in a straight line, cutting off a handful of Deadlock members and taking them on with her machine fire. Reinhardt’s shield is down, the close-quarters combat requiring him to be as responsive as possible. McCree’s footing slips as Reinhardt’s hammer strikes the earth, knocking a few enemies off their feet and giving him a moment of breathing room before more swarm in.

76 is on the ground, Mercy’s yellow beam tethered to him as she skirts around just outside of the fight. He grabs his gun and swings it around, taking out an opponent just before they had the chance to finish him off. He staggers to his feet, steadying himself as he regains health, and Mercy’s beam leaves him to go lock on to D.Va as he swings back into action.

The gunslinger is forced to jump out of the way as another rider comes charging at him, throwing a flashbang at his feet to get the drop on the two Deadlock members he’s now closest to. In the blinding aftermath, he fires off three shots; one to the leg to drop the first person, one to the head to take out the second, and one to the head to finish off the first.

Reaper drifts right through him, black smoke disintegrating around McCree and flowing back together as Reaper solidified a few yards away, drawing his twin shotguns and firing off alternating rounds into the fray before slipping away again into the dust. The gunslinger catches a glimpse of him again by the crates a moment later, his boot on an enemy’s collarbone.

McCree barely has time to duck as a knife slices over his head. Crouching, hand instinctively on his hat, he throws out his left hand, catching the blade with his metal arm. The contact sparks and he spins his weight, body-slamming into the offender and shoving him out of arm’s reach. The knife is thrown, lodging in his shoulder, and a gunshot immediately follows, grazing a tear across his arm as McCree ducks again and throws another flashbang. His shoulder sears with fire, and he clamps his good hand over the blade pinning his serape, unable to move his wounded arm.

“Mercy-” he starts, but the medic has already flitted closer and turned her staff towards him. He feels the skin around the wound start to itch, and he gives it just a second before sharply pulling the blade out. The moment of intense pain is slowly dulled to a hot burn, then a warm itch, then a dull throbbing, until finally he can move his arm without any soreness. He gives a thumbs-up in Mercy’s direction, tipping his head in thanks, and she returns the gesture before darting off around the other side of the fight.

“They’re dropping the crates!” Reaper’s voice shouts through the gunslinger’s intercom above the din of battle.

“The train’s here?” 76 demands, as McCree glances up across the fight to catch a glimpse of the crates. A few of them are already balanced over the ledge, carefully being lowered by two well-armored Deadlock members.

“Seems like it.” Reaper responds, and McCree sees him dash to briefly look over the ledge before he’s pushed back by gunfire. “Yeah, it’s rounding the bend now!”

“Fuck— D.Va, don’t let them move those weapons!” 76 shouts back.

“On it!” The mech pilot replies, and a moment later she jets over the edge, guns firing as she descends into the gorge.

Although the swarm of horse-riding backup was enough to initially overwhelm them, it seemed that everything was going well enough so far. Only two or three Deadlock members were still mounted, the rest of the horses having loped off to mill around by the buildings. One horse had been hit by stray bullets, and McCree felt his heart wrench with hurt but knew he couldn’t dwell on the death. Deadlock was still engaging them, a handful of gang members grouping up around the crates and firing from behind the cover. Reinhardt’s shield came to life a little ways away, curved towards the weapons, and Soldier 76 took the opportunity to place himself behind the cover, guarding Reinhardt’s back.

McCree catches movement behind him out of his periphery, and he dodges out of the way just in time as a grenade bounces past. He throws his arm up over his face to shield himself from the explosion, feeling the dirt spray against his side and cover him in clay and dust. He coughs and blinks to clear his eyes, but the dust is thick and heavy in the air, and he can hardly see beyond his own outstretched hand as he tries to aim Peacekeeper at his opponent. He spins around, shadows from distant silhouettes and muzzle flash lighting up the clouds around him and playing tricks on his eyes. He grabs a flashbang, tossing it into the rolling dust in front of him, and squints his eyes against the blinding light as it goes off and illuminates the empty fog around him.

He feels cold metal press to the back of his skull and hears the click of the hammer cocking into place, and he knows that when the dust finally settles he’ll be dead. His heart sinks into his stomach and he shuts his eyes.

Two gunshots ring out, and the muzzle against his head falls to the ground. McCree spins, coming face to face with the still-smoking barrels of Reaper’s twin shotguns. He looks down, the collapsed Deadlock member bleeding out between them, then looks back up to Reaper’s inscrutable mask, his eyes wide with shock that was still taking its time to register in his mind.

“Now you owe me one,” Reaper says, not waiting for McCree to collect his thoughts. It was probably for the best: the cowboy’s head was still reeling.

“Thanks,” he manages to mumble, and Reaper turns and dissolves back into the dust. McCree stands where he is a moment longer, the cloud of dirt slowly sifting away around him, before steeling himself to return to the fight.

No sooner than he’s back in action and he’s dueling with another Deadlock member, pulling their attention off of Soldier 76 and drawing their fire. McCree returns the shots, not close enough to be as accurate as he’d like, so he sprays a fan of bullets in their direction and darts closer to assault them in close quarters.

A sudden explosion echoes up from the gorge.

“Aw crap,” D.Va’s voice cuts in through the sound of fighting. McCree fans off another round with Peacekeeper, quickly ducking to roll behind his opponent and emerge on the other side, firing off another shot in their back.

“What’s wrong, D.Va?” Soldier 76 responds. McCree can feel his sides burning with exertion, and he ducks away to kneel momentarily out of the crossfire and catch his breath. A drop of sweat from his nose falls to the dirt at his feet, and he wipes his nosebridge with the back of a gloved hand.

“I’m hurt. I had to pull back a bit to stay safe but at this point I don’t think I can take them out without getting too close again.”

“Alright, that’s fine. Mercy, we’re good here, go heal her up.”

“I’m coming,” Mercy acknowledged, winding around behind Reinhardt as he backed up to the ledge, providing her cover with his shield. Mercy stooped on over the edge, pumping the trigger on her staff, but the golden energy just pooled around the tip, not close enough to D.Va to tether to her. “Looks like you’re out of range. Hang on, I’m coming down.”

McCree sees her stand up and disappear over the ledge, wings extended. A few seconds later, D.Va’s chipper “ _thanks!_ ” crackles over the intercom.

“Shield’s going down in about ten seconds,” Reinhardt warns. Soldier 76 immediately pauses firing and glances around, attention landing on the nearest form of cover.

“Got it. Head towards that building to the left, away from the overhang.”

Reinhardt nods, a clunky move partially obscured by the heft of his armor, and begins strafing away from the ledge. Soldier 76 keeps behind him, firing at their rear. They’re about ten yards from the building when Reinhardt’s shield takes another round of damage and he drops it to prevent further lasting harm. He immediately swings his hammer, the weighty collision with the earth shaking the ground and stirring up a layer of dust. Bullets rain against his armor, most of them just dinging on the surface and ricocheting off with a spark. McCree ducks out from his cover, tossing a flashbang into the fray and firing a spray of bullets, giving his allies just enough time to safely dip into the alley. Once he sees them reach safety he returns to his position.

Another loud explosion rocks the canyon walls. The cowboy ducks his head instinctively under one arm, years of missions conditioning him to expect falling debris.

“Shit-!” D.Va’s voice cuts in, the background of her staticy transmission blaring with some kind of alarm. McCree cautiously peeks his head out from cover to get a better look. Black, oily smoke is billowing up from the gorge, moving away at a relatively fast clip. “These fuckers!” D.Va yells again, alarm in the background increasing in pitch. “Fine! You wanna play dirty? Nerf THIS!”

There’s a second’s delay before a third, louder, explosion rings out, the sound of metal scraping metal screeching through the blast. “What the hell is going on?” Soldier 76 demands over the intercom, and McCree glances across the road to see him and Reinhardt crouched between the buildings across the way, watching too.

“D.Va’s mech was heavily damaged,” Mercy’s voice speaks up, D.Va’s own victorious cackling audible in the background of her microphone. “So she self-destructed. We’re fine.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Reaper says, and McCree momentarily looks around to try and spot him, but to no avail. “We don’t have infinite money for you to build a new mech each time you blow one up.”

“Yeah? Well, what about your guns?” D.Va’s insulted voice jabs back. “We don’t have money for you to throw away your guns each time you need to reload!”

Reaper is silent for a few moments, the sound of his weapons firing somewhere around the corner from where McCree is crouched. There’s a beat after the last gunshot before his voice returns. “Touché.”

McCree rolls his eyes, straightening up and re-adjusting his grip on Peacekeeper. Across the street, Reinhardt and Soldier 76 are readying themselves to return to the fray.

 “They’ve gained their ground back,” McCree warns, noting that Deadlock’s previous hold near the large crates of weapons was now properly being defended. “It’ll be hard to get around to flank them from this angle.”

“Reaper, you got it?” Soldier 76 asks, and McCree catches a flash of black smoke from the end of the alley behind him out of the corner of his eye.

“Ready when you are,” Reaper’s voice floats in, and McCree swears he can hear the smirk in his growl. He checks the chamber of his gun and cocks the hammer, shifting to his feet and readying himself. In the opposite alley, Reinhardt stands up, with Soldier 76 right behind him as they swing out from their cover. Reinhardt’s shield immediately goes back up, Deadlocks’ bullets bouncing harmlessly off its front as 76’s own fire tears at them from behind the glowing blue screen. Deadlock holds their ground, maintaining their position behind the crates and firing at the advancing duo from their cover.

“We may have a problem,” Mercy says from down in the gorge, and although her statement is calm, McCree knows ‘ _a problem_ ’ is never a good thing.

“What is it?” Soldier 76 entertains, guns still blazing into the wooden crates.

McCree darts out from his safety, firing a few shots in Deadlock’s direction to further distract their attention. A few stray bullets whizz past him for his efforts, and he keeps up the pressure as he watches a swirl of black mist skirt around the edge of the overhang, drawing up behind the crates and solidifying into a six-foot-one nightmare. There’s a flurry of gunshots and abruptly the Deadlock members behind the crates are no longer firing. Reaper tosses a gun, hesitates, then bends down to pick it back up.

“I lost my mech, I can’t fly us back up,” D.Va says, voice less calm than Mercy’s. McCree can see Reaper turn around on the ledge, scanning the train tracks below until he follows the source of the still-billowing smoke to about a quarter-mile away.

McCree’s mind is working through the situation one step ahead of the rest of the group. “Mercy, can’t you tether to one of us up here with your staff and grab D.Va, and then jump up?” 76 asks. Now that Reaper had taken care of the return-fire from behind the crates, Reinhardt’s shield had gone down and they felt safe enough to dash over to join Reaper near the looted weapons. Soldier 76 approaches the ledge at the same time Mercy’s voice returns to the intercom.

“No, we’re on top of the train, way out of range,” she says. Reaper points in the distance, and 76 follows the indicative billow of smoke with his eyes until he spots the two figures on top of the moving train at its source.

“Ah shit,” he mutters, glancing around for an option. McCree has already found it- one of the saddled horses that Deadlock had ridden in on, still milling nearby.

The cowboy slips his boot into the stirrup and swings himself up into the saddle, catching the other side with his foot as the horse half-rears in shock. He yanks down hard on the reins and rams his spurs into the creature’s side, tugging its head down until the appaloosa’s front legs return to the earth with a scuffle. Soldier 76 snaps his head toward the racket and catches the flurry of McCree’s red serape as it blurs past.

“I got ‘em, boss!” McCree shouts over the thunder of hooves, one hand clamped to the front of his hat to keep it from blowing off, grin wide as his ears.

“Fucking dammit, McCree,” Reaper says, and McCree just stands in the stirrups, leaning his weight forward off the saddle and pressing his face into the horse’s wind-whipped mane as he gallops off after the train.

 

\---

 

It takes him at least five minutes of hard riding to catch up, pushing the horse as fast as its hooves could carry them across the desert with the overhang on his right. His serape tugged around his shoulders, whipped backwards on the wind, as warm desert air flowed through his hair, and although he was still holding his hat in place, he craned his neck just slightly to let it ruffle his bangs from his face.

He could almost be relaxed.

He’s slowly pulling up to them, the horse’s gallop marginally faster than the sluggish chug of the train below. McCree cautiously steers closer to the edge of the overlook, trying to gauge the distance between him and his stranded teammates.

“How’re y’all doing?” The cowboy shouts. “This good enough?”

“We can see you, McCree, but you’ll have to get closer,” Mercy advises, and McCree leans into the horse, urging it for more speed. He’s drawing close, but in the distance he can see the front of the train disappear into the tunnel.

“How much closer, you reckon?” He asks, weaving to the right to avoid a clump of drybrush. Dislodged pebbles from the horse’s hooves spray over the edge of the gorge and clatter onto the traincars below. McCree steadies himself back on course, keeping a safe yard between them and the drop.

“Not too much farther! Up ahead here, the outcrop comes down a bit. The height difference might do the trick!”

McCree has caught up to them now, maintaining his speed as his horse pulls alongside parallel to the train. He leans a bit over the side of the saddle, cautiously inching his steed closer to the edge until he can see over the drop to the traincars below. Mercy and D.Va are crouched on the roof of the train, weights low to keep themselves balanced. Towards the end of the car, a dark black scar on the metal has warped some of the rivets and metal plating, the remaining scraps of D.Va’s mech littering the surface of the roof and adjacent car from the explosion. The bulk is still smoking, thick black plumes that are whisked away on the wind.

 “Y’all might want to hurry, we’re comin’ up on the tunnel,” McCree cautions, watching the train cars ahead disappear into the mountain one by one. Mercy shoots them a look, eyeing the shortening distance to the tunnel and extending a hand to D.Va. The mech pilot inches closer to Mercy, grabbing her hand and pulling close so she could wrap an arm tightly around the healer’s waist. Mercy steadies herself, wings flared and ready as she waits for the right moment.

The slant of the ground is gradually starting to change, and McCree can see the horizon rising in the distance as they take to the downward slope. The train below, its tracks running at ground-level, slowly slides into view next to the outcrop until his horse’s thundering hooves are pounding the cracked dirt at Mercy’s head-height. The mouth of the tunnel is quickly approaching, eating up the train cars one after another like a lit fuse rushing towards the imminent explosion. McCree grits his teeth and holds his speed, the distance between them and the tunnel drawing dangerously near.

As soon as she’s close enough, Mercy triggers the healing beam on her staff, turning it in McCree’s direction until it locks on and tethers to him. McCree instantly feels the distinct warm tingle flow through his body, touching every cell and charging every breath he drew into his lungs. Although he wasn’t suffering from injuries, his body’s exertion began to drain from his limbs, re-invigorating his muscles and pumping rich blood through his veins. Mercy crouched low to the train, wings spreading high and posed above her shoulder blades, with D.Va tucked close.

“Ready?” Mercy shouts, and McCree nudges his horse another inch closer to the edge, riding less than a foot from the drop as it blurred past underhoof.

“Ready!” He calls back, scooting as far forward in the saddle as he can.

He feels the tug from the staff’s beam as Mercy jumps.

Their combined weights pull at him in the saddle, and he presses low against the horse’s neck, pommel digging into his sternum as he braces himself from slipping off. He reaches out an arm, fingertips brushing Mercy’s as she crests over the top of the overhang. Their hands hook and he reels his arm in, pulling Mercy and D.Va onto the saddle behind him. They land with a clatter, jostling his balance and grasping to hold on as McCree tugs firmly on the reins.

“Good to see you McCree!” D.Va laughs, and the gunslinger grins at her over his shoulder.

“Good to see y’all too,” he replies.

He circles the horse away from the ledge in a slowing canter until they come to an ambling walk. He shifts in the saddle, the pommel digging uncomfortably against his inseam from being pressed so far forward with two other people on the saddle behind him. Fortunately, Mercy disentangles herself and hops down off the horse, landing lightly on the ground. She briefly dusts herself off, re-adjusting her outfit and checking her wings over her shoulders.

“Thank you for the rescue,” Mercy smiles, warming McCree’s heart for the second time that day. She always seemed so genuine.

“My pleasure,” McCree said, then into his intercom, “I got ‘em. We’re headed back now.”

D.Va shifted her seat to the back of the saddle, grabbing McCree around the waist, and the gunslinger gratefully slid back away from where he had been crammed up against the pommel. Mercy’s healing beam tethered itself once more to him, and she flitted into the air on her wings. Grabbing the reins, McCree turned the horse in the direction of route 66 and took off back towards the town.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Hamilton reference somewhere in here. Points if you spot it!

The fight was done by the time they got back. Soldier 76 was reluctantly impressed by McCree’s quick-thinking, but still berated him for riding off without orders to do so, when the three of them finally loped back into town. McCree took the soldier’s stern words with a grain of salt as he dismounted, patting the horse’s sweaty neck and rubbing circles into its flank with the flat of his hand, knowing that D.Va and Mercy would have been stranded miles away from the rest of the team if it hadn’t been for him.

76 knew it too, but he would never get used to McCree’s pension for acting without first consulting his commander. Blackwatch had always operated differently— no red tape, no time to wait for orders; it was trust your instinct and find out the consequences later. Joining Overwatch had been a shock to the senses, so much so that most of the other Blackwatch members had left within the first week, and the rest had trickled out by the end of the month. Some of them needed fewer regulations, some of them needed more freedom, and some of them just weren’t cut out for change and didn’t get along with their new teammates. Or their new commander.

Morrison lead the team very differently than Reyes had; the differences in their command styles were like night and day. Morrison was good, McCree couldn’t deny it, but his idealistic worldview and soft-hearted nature made him want people to like him more than he wanted them to respect him. Maybe for Overwatch, that was fine, but for Blackwatch not so much. Reyes had been a highly-respectable commander of the black-ops division, mainly because he _knew_ how the system worked, and hated it just as much as the rest of them. Blackwatch loyally followed his command, if and when he exerted it, because they knew he would always find the best path to their goal even if it meant having to break a few rules or bones along the way. Everyone could agree that he was good at getting the job done, no matter what the cost. His tenacity under pressure was admirable, something that earned him respect and a bit of healthy fear from his subordinates.

McCree wondered if Morrison ever regretted making Reyes step down when he disbanded the group and merged it back with Overwatch. McCree’s existence alone probably should have made the feat of taking over Blackwatch nearly unbearable, but fortunately a particular broody ex-commander stuck around to keep the cowboy in line.

Or maybe McCree was the one sticking around to keep his ex-commander from blowing up the place any time someone told him he wasn’t allowed to fix the coffee machine without first submitting a work order.

Heh. Guess that’s one form of symbiotic relationship.

“So _that’s_ why you’ve got those stupid spurs on your shoes,” Reaper’s voice said behind him.

Speak of the devil.

McCree turned from where he had been pulling off the horse’s saddle and tack, slinging the saddle blanket over his shoulder. He shot Reaper a scowl and stuck out his tongue, shimmying his boots so that his spurs jangled. Reaper crossed his arms at McCree’s childish flaunt.

“Naw partner, I keep these for kinky sex. The horse was a coincidence.”

Reaper’s shoulders betray his small chuckle, and McCree’s face slips into a shit-eating grin, partially-hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy?” Reaper jabs back, leaning forward.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Cut it out, you two.” Soldier 76 shouts from a few yards away, and McCree can swear he sees Reaper’s eyes roll behind his mask as he straightens up and uncrosses his arms. “We’ve got work to do.”

McCree reluctantly turned away and finished unbridling the horse, tossing the gear to the side and giving the creature one last pat on the neck before joining the rest of his team. They had started to consolidate the stolen weapons while McCree was away, retrieving the handful of crates that had been partially-dropped to the train, now hanging suspended by the pulleys anchored into the red rock of the overhang. Reinhardt was pulling most of the weight, heaving on the straps until the crates were one by one pulled back up onto solid ground. Soldier 76 was helping him to haul them over to where they’ve stacked the rest of the crates, cracking the lids and relaying their contents to D.Va, who has started work on cataloging.

Reaper glides away back to where three people sit on the ground, arms and legs tied, all in various states of injury. McCree flicks over their faces, not recognizing them individually but recognizing the quiet resentment that they all wear on their features behind the busted lips and black eyes. As Reaper approaches, one of them has the nerve to spit blood at his boots, missing as Reaper’s foot swiftly flies to kick him in the shin. The man, who looks like he couldn’t be any older than twenty, hisses and draws his legs back, glaring angrily and muttering something under his breath that has Reaper threaten to kick him again.

Deadlock hostages.

The lucky few that had managed to survive the fight until the point when Soldier 76 had declared to take the survivors prisoner.

Body cleanup had already been done, for the most part. The ground between the end of the buildings and the crates at the overlook had been cleared so that Overwatch could work without stumbling over dead bodies. The ones that had fallen in the way had been moved up against the canyon wall or the shade of nearby buildings: scavengers like vultures and coyotes would pick them apart within a day or so until there was nothing left to swelter in the heat. McCree was just secretly glad he had missed that part of the operation and didn’t have to do it himself.

McCree re-joins the group, settling in beside Reaper as he finishes putting the crates back together after D.Va has made a note of their contents. McCree glances around for Mercy, and Reaper seems to notice his slight concern.

“Mercy’s calling base to come pick us up. They’re going to meet us outside of town, near where we dropped our stuff.”

“Oh, alright. That ain’t too bad, then.”

Reaper snorts a short, sarcastic laugh that sounds more like a grunt than anything. “We’ve got to bring all these weapons there.”

McCree doesn’t quite follow at first, but Reaper helpfully gestures to Reinhardt and 76 who were bringing the last of the crates to the rest of the pile, tossing it down in the dust next to the stack of boxes with a heavy thud. The pile consists of at least ten or twelve containers.

McCree groans, hamming it up a bit more than necessary just because Reaper is outright laughing now, even though they were both going to share in the same misery of hauling heavy wooden crates to the pick-up spot. At least humor would make the task seem somewhat bearable. McCree is still feeling defeated by the arduous chore ahead of them, but he manages to crack a small lopsided grin at Reaper’s good mood as he moves around the other side of the crate, helping to hold the lid in place as Reaper jams it back closed.

“Can’t Reinhardt move all these for us?” McCree whines jokingly. Reaper gives the lid a heavy hit with the heel of his palm, testing the fit, before moving on to the next one. McCree follows him around the crate and slides its lid into place, holding it for Reaper. He catches a glimpse of a few automatic rifles nestled within the hay inside the crate.

“I wish,” Reaper agrees, shoving his weight onto the crate’s lid until the panel squeezed into place between the four sturdy walls. The wood made an awful squeaking noise as it splintered slightly at the edges from the force, and McCree winced. “Or load them onto his shield and slide them.”

“Like a sled?” McCree asks.

“Sure, why not?” Reaper replies, lifting one heavy boot and bringing it down on top of a corner of the lid that was particularly stubborn. The force of his weight snapped the wooden panel securely into place, and McCree wondered if they’d ever be able to open this crate again without having to saw into it. He leads the way to the next box, where D.Va is finishing up making the list of contents.

She gives him a grin and a mimed tip of the hat. “Looks like there’s enough ammo in this one that Reaper can afford to reload now!” She jokes, and McCree guffaws.

 “That doesn’t even make sense,” Reaper shoots back, grabbing the wooden lid off the ground and placing it carefully over top of the crate. “I have plenty of ammo. It’s just faster to not take the time to reload.”

“Partner, how much time do you spend loading your guns in advance? Do those hours count on your paycheck?”

D.Va laughs and elbows McCree in the side, throwing him a wink. Reaper visibly sighs. “Maybe I can convince the commander to pay me overtime if I stock up on loaded mechs, in case one explodes. Do you think he’d pay for that?”

McCree shrugs, eyebrows raised. “Maybe! I might convince him to get me a lingerie magazine and put half an hour on the clock if I claim it’s for-”

“McCree, shut up and help,” Reaper complains, interrupting the cowboy before he can finish his thought. McCree’s still grinning and D.Va laughs again as she bounces away, having finished her cataloging. She joins Soldier 76 by the other crate pile, handing off her piece of paper so he could tuck it into his pocket for later, then helps him begin to lift the boxes for moving.

McCree turns back to Reaper, who is holding the lid in place expectantly, then presses his hands to the top and shoves with his shoulders, wedging the lid back in place. He gives it another few pushes, bouncing his weight into his forearms, then stands up straight and brushes off his hands as Reaper examines their work.

The lid is barely secured in place, and Reaper heaves his weight against the wooden panel until it’s tight. McCree feels mildly upstaged and looks for something else to do instead.

“So how much ammo _do_ you keep on you, anyway?” McCree asks idly, trailing after Reaper as he scouts out the next box. D.Va and 76 were lifting a crate together now, one on each end, steadying it between them before beginning to lug it away towards the pickup spot. Reinhardt grabbed a crate of his own and dragged it behind him for a few steps before stopping, finding another one, and arranging them so he could drag them both at the same time with one from each hand. He caught up with 76 and D.Va and trudged alongside them, striking up a merry conversation.

Jesus, that man was strong. McCree absently rubbed his metal arm, wondering if he could ask for an upgrade, or if that was even possible.

“Har har, very funny, six-shot.” Reaper responded, pulling the cowboy’s attention back to the task at hand. McCree helped him with the next crate, this time slipping the lid into place so Reaper could jam it back securely. _Reaper_ seemed to have no trouble getting the lids back in place. McCree pouted, just a little, although if Reaper noticed he didn’t acknowledge it.

“All I’m sayin’ is, if the commander lets your expenses into the budget, then surely he can pay me for five minutes on the clock with a porno magazine. I’ll tell him it’s strength training.”

Reaper shakes his head, but McCree is delighted to see his shoulders betraying his laughter. The cowboy’s ego re-inflates a bit.

“Five minutes? Is that all it takes?” Reaper asks, heaving his weight against the last crate lid and popping it into place with ease. McCree shoots him an indignant scowl.

“Well, _no_ , it doesn’t have to be that short,” he protests, but Reaper isn’t listening. McCree’s cheeks flare red and he pouts again under his hat. “It doesn’t take that short of time! Listen, I said thirty minutes earlier anyway,”

“No, no, I think you dug your own grave on this one. Five-minute McCree.” Reaper laughs, and McCree finds himself heated and embarrassed, but still in good spirits. He purses his lips and lightly smacks Reaper’s arm.

“Stop it! Reaper, listen to me, I don’t take five minutes!” McCree shouts, trying to be heard over Reaper’s rumbling laughter. The man seems smug with himself, pleased at his own joke, and McCree throws his hands up in the air in a grand display of frustration, rolling his eyes. “You’re so immature! Ex-commander of the entirety of Blackwatch, and you’re the most childish man I ever met.”

“Says Jesse McCree,” Reaper retorts in good humor, but the laughter fades from his voice as he bends down to grip under one side of the wooden crate. McCree realizes too late that maybe mentioning the ex-commander thing could cause a mood shift, and he guiltily contemplates his boots for a moment before joining Reaper in lifting the crate from the other side.

“I’m sorry, that probably was too much,” he admitted, waiting for Reaper’s cue before they hefted the crate off the ground between them. He adjusted his grip on the underside, wrapping his fingers into the wood paneling to find better purchase. He snuck a glance up at Reaper’s mask, although the stoic expression didn’t tell him anything that was going on in the man’s head. Reaper shrugged, using the motion to re-adjust his grip on the crate too.

“It’s fine. I need to get over it.”

That’s not quite what McCree was expecting to hear. “It ain’t right, though. You did a fine job runnin’ Blackwatch, Commander Morrison should’ve let you stay in charge when we merged,”

“I said I need to get over it, McCree,” Reaper snapped, earning a raised eyebrow from the taken-aback cowboy. He was quiet for a second, standing in place with the crate in his hands, before continuing. “Morrison made his choice. I’m not the right fit to lead Overwatch. That’s what golden boy does best. You and me, we’re cut from a different cloth,” Reaper nudges forward with his side of the crate, prompting McCree to back up a few steps until they were angled better for walking. “Rules don’t mean shit to us. Overwatch can’t have that kind of a leader.”

McCree doesn’t respond immediately, letting Reaper’s words settle into his head for a few moments as they awkwardly adjust the crate between them, before finally settling on a good angle to walk with it. “I guess you’re right. Still, for what it’s worth, you’re more of my commander than Morrison will ever be. We’ve been through our share of shit together. That tends to stick with a man.”

He gambles on another side glance at Reaper, although he knows he won’t be able to read his expression from behind the mask. The gunslinger turns his attention back to the ground in front of him, watching the uneven earth as they carried the crate through the town. 76, D.Va, and Reinhardt were already gone, too far ahead of them. Reaper and McCree walked alone down the center of the empty main drag.

“So you used to live here with Deadlock?” Reaper spoke up, changing the topic. McCree wasn’t sure if he was grateful for the new conversation or not.

“Not lived, no. But we spent some time here for the heists, maybe one or two nights each time.”

“You rode horses?”

McCree gave him another look, this time not furtively. “Yeah, sometimes. Mostly we used ‘em for carryin’ the cargo along with the train, but they were our horses. We rode them occasionally.”

“Do you miss it?”

“What, horseback riding?”

“Sure. You seemed to pick it up again pretty naturally earlier”

“I guess so. Never had the chance to ride since joining Blackwatch. Probably won’t have the opportunity again, either.”

“Maybe we’ll go out riding sometime.”

McCree’s head swivels to look at Reaper, mouth slightly agape. “We? As in, you and me?”

Reaper’s head tilts. “Well, yeah. Who else would I be talking about?”

McCree shakes his head. “No, that ain’t what I— I meant, you ride?”

Reaper hefts the crate up a bit to re-grip the bottom. “Yeah, a bit. Grew up with a neighbor who owned horses. She let me and my siblings ride them sometimes, once we were old enough.”

“I had no idea,” McCree mused, trying to imagine a young Reaper, a young Gabriel Reyes, being lead around on a pony with the stirrups too long for his legs. The image didn’t come easily to his mind, but if he re-imagined it as a gangly ten-year old Gabe, clutching the horse’s mane in his fists as he stubbornly held himself on bareback with just a saddle blanket, the image came a lot easier.

“I guess we could take the Deadlock horses,” he continued, thinking of the small herd that would probably have otherwise wandered off to become wild. “Maybe go for a ride just before dawn, get up high somewhere and watch the sunrise in the desert. I always liked watchin’ it, there’s something peaceful about early dawn. It might be good, after this mission—”

“McCree!” Reaper suddenly shouted, and the gunslinger immediately felt the weight of the crate drop on the other end. McCree pitched forward, thrown off-balance, as Reaper leaped up across the box, reaching to shove McCree’s head and shoulders down as he dove over him.

McCree heard the gunshot and collapsed hard onto the sharp edge of the wood, Reaper’s body heavy on his back before he rolled off into the dirt. The wind knocked out of him, the gunslinger wheezed to drag air back into his lungs, flattening himself on the ground next to Reaper beside the crate as he scrambled to grab his gun from its holster.

“Where in the hell did that come from?” He demanded, gripping Peacekeeper to his chest and scooting in closer to the cover of the crate.

“The balcony,” Reaper gasped, and the strain in his voice made the world spin to a stop and McCree’s blood run cold. He turned himself over, propping his weight up on his elbows as he twisted to face Reaper.

The man was curled inward on his side, arm wrapped tightly around his stomach and knees drawn up. The steel claws on his fingers were strained deep red, and as McCree watched in horror, another stream of blood trickled a new path across the metal and gushed over the top of his palm onto the ground into a slowly-growing puddle.

“Fuck! Reaper, why didn’t you go wraith?” McCree yelled, panic showing itself in the form of frustration and worry. He quickly sat up and peeked his head over the top of the crate, trying to find the balcony shooter, but there were too many buildings to scan. He ducked back down, shifting so he could see Reaper better.

“Cause then the bullet would have hit you, shithead,” Reaper growled, doubling over as he no doubt winced behind his mask.

“So you decide to jump in front of it? Fuck, you’re an idiot—”

“I decided to _save your life_ , McCree, Jesus,” Reaper snapped, cautiously lifting a few fingers from his bleeding stomach before he clamped them back down, another spurt of blood gushing forth. “I think I deserve a thank you, at least,” he coughed.

“Fuck, okay, stop talking,” McCree commanded, pressing his hand over Reaper’s and helping to hold pressure on the wound. He leans over Reaper, checking the ground behind him, eyes brushing over the man’s lower back for any sign of an exit-wound. There’s nothing to be seen, leading him to believe the bullet was still lodged in Reaper’s lower abdomen. He glanced around, taking in their surroundings from behind the cover of the crate, before speaking through his intercom. “Mercy, Reaper’s been shot. He’s losing blood. Can you come heal him?”

Another two gunshots whizzed just overhead, embedding themselves in the ground with a spray of dirt a few feet away. McCree turned his ears to the sound and raised Peacekeeper, firing a bullet in the shooter’s direction. Another shot was returned.

“There was an ambush, we’ll get there soon,” Soldier 76 responded to McCree’s request for backup. The gunslinger groaned and rolled over on the ground so he was lying on his front, propping himself up and half-shielding Reaper’s body with his own. He raised his head and his gun, catching a glimpse of movement on an upper-story balcony above the connected porches— dirty blond hair, swept back in a low ponytail at the neck, and the flash of light off the barrel of a six-shooter as it was aimed in McCree’s direction. McCree’s heart jumped in his chest and they both shot at the same time, neither one hitting their mark.

“ _Fuck,_ ” McCree hissed to himself, leaning back down over Reaper and screwing his eyes shut. Of all the people they had to run into on this mission. Of all the people to still be alive and still in Deadlock at this exact time and place. Of all the people to have shot Reaper while McCree was there.

Reaper coughed lightly again, groaning as it unintentionally worsened his injury. “What’s wrong?”

“I know the shooter,” McCree growled, adjusting his position to slip an arm under Reaper’s shoulders. “Can you make it to the buildings?”

Reaper grunted, holding his hand in place on his stomach as he pulled his weight upright, leaning heavily against McCree’s body. “Yeah, but I’m not leaving cover while that asshole’s still shooting at me.”

“Don’t worry about that,” McCree said, lifting himself up again on his heels to look over the crate. Doing a quick mental count, he fired another shot, and a second later ducked back down when a return bullet zipped past his hat. Six shots from a six-shooter. “He’s out of bullets now, and was never quick at reloading.”

Reaper looked unconvinced, but allowed McCree to haul him to his feet anyway. For a split second the gunslinger doubted himself and was worriedly expecting to be wrong and have another bullet hit them, but the balcony was clear now with no sign of the shooter. McCree shoved his shoulder under Reaper’s arm, wrapping a hand around his side and helping to apply pressure to the wound on his stomach, and then carefully guided him out from behind the crate and towards the nearest building entrance. Their progress was slow, Reaper trying to glide as smoothly as he could without jolting his body too much, but McCree could tell that he was really struggling to pull himself along. The gunslinger gripped Reaper’s side a bit tighter, trying to lift some of the wraith’s weight off his feet.

They stumbled up the wooden stairs and onto the stoop, ducking under the cover of the porch and out of sight from the balcony. McCree steered them to the recessed entry, nudging through the doorway and into the dim room.

“Upstairs,” McCree huffed, and Reaper just allowed them to turn in the direction of the stairs at the back of the overturned shop. They limped across the room, avoiding upturned tables and chairs, scattered post cards, knickknacks, boxes, and bottles. McCree kicked a few items out of the way so Reaper wouldn’t have to step over them, noting with growing concern that the other man was barely lifting his feet to walk, instead only managing to shuffle his heavy boots along the hard wood floor.

“Can you make it?” McCree asks as they reach the stairs, and Reaper hesitates with his foot on the first step. He rocks forward, trying to throw his weight up onto the step with the momentum, but he doesn’t seem certain that he can do it.

“I’m too light-headed,” he mumbles through his mask, and McCree tightens his grip around Reaper’s waist as he pitches towards the wall, catching his weight against the surface to hold himself upright. “Can’t we just stay right here?”

McCree glanced around the room, at the open front doorway and the back exit through the attached storeroom, and the front glass windows. “It’d be better cover upstairs, but if you can’t make it we’ll stay here.”

McCree is ready to help guide Reaper to sit down at the foot of the stairs, but the wraith instead shakes his head and reaches to grip the wall with one hand. “Meet me at the top.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath as Reaper sucks in air through his mask, and just like that he’s dissolving into undulating black mist, smokey particles that flow up the steps like a roiling flock of birds in the sky. McCree is surprised but quickly bolts up the steps after him, reaching the top landing just as the smoke pools over the last step and spills onto the floor, swirling thicker and solidifying back into a physical form as Reaper stumbles to his knees. McCree is instantly at his side, guiding him safely to the floor as the man sways unsteadily, planting one hand on the floorboards to brace himself, and clutching his stomach with the other. His head is hanging low under his hunched shoulders, his breath coming heavy from behind his mask.

McCree was honestly surprised that the man even tried to exert himself enough to get up the stairs, but the gunslinger was grateful for the effort because now he’d have an easier time guarding them until Mercy could arrive. With the amount of windows and open space downstairs on the first floor, he had been afraid that they’d be sitting ducks in a firefight if there ended up being another shootout. Still, right at the top of the stairs wasn’t the best place to stay, either.

“Y’alright there, partner?” McCree asks, as Reaper’s supporting arm begins to visibly shake under his weight.

“Gonna pass out,” he responds, breathily.

Coming to a decision, McCree places his gun on the floor and helps guide Reaper backwards onto his ass, carefully tucking his legs up in front of him so that they helped squeeze his hand against his stomach. Slinging Reaper’s other arm over his shoulder, McCree tucked one hand around his side and one arm under his knees, pressing his body close to the other man’s. The blood soaking on Reaper’s stomach slicked against McCree’s front, but the gunslinger ignored the mess and just gathered his ex-commander closer in his grip.

“I’m picking you up,” McCree warned, then heaved himself to his feet, Reaper’s weight scooped in his arms. Reaper was honestly heavier than expected, tens of more pounds probably added on in weight from his clothing and ammunition, and McCree staggered a few steps to keep his balance as he finally drew upright. Reaper’s head lolled against McCree’s shoulder, mask tucked into the red fabric of the gunslinger’s serape. He grunts as McCree takes a step towards the back of the room, the motion jostling his hand on his stomach.

“Boutta faint,” Reaper mumbles, speech slurring as the blood undoubtedly rushed in his ears. His grip over McCree’s shoulder weakens. “Don’t lemme die, kid.”

“I won’t, _jefe._ ”

McCree manages to get four more steps in before Reaper’s body goes completely limp and the deadweight becomes too much for the gunslinger to carry. He collapses to his knees, sliding them both to the floor as gently as he can manage near the back of the room, Reaper’s limp body tugging at his serape and dragging it down on his left side like pulling a bedsheet off the mattress.

There’s a decent amount of space between them and the stairs now, the only other way onto the second floor, aside from the windows that face out onto the street below. McCree carefully dislodges himself from Reaper’s unconscious body, rolling him onto his side and stretching his legs out, one knee slightly bent to hold him there. He tucks the hand against the wraith’s stomach a little tighter to the wound, and stretches the other arm above his head on the floor to cushion his head and keep it tilted down. Although he knew it had been dangerous to even move Reaper in the first place, he felt a lot better knowing that they could now wait for Mercy a little safer. With any luck he’d be able to stand guard at the top of the stairs and take out anyone who tried to come up.

A metallic scuff on the stairs behind him dashed his fragile hopes and brought them crashing down around him. McCree froze in place momentarily before slowly turning over his right shoulder to face the landing, steeling himself for what he knew he would see.

The outlaw stood at the top of the stairs, Peacekeeper trapped under the toe of his boot. McCree silently scolded himself for having left it there when he had picked Reaper up, although he hadn’t been anticipating company _quite_ this soon and had assumed he’d have time to retrieve it.

_You know what they say about assumptions_ , McCree thought sardonically.

The outlaw swung a lazy kick with his foot, sending Peacekeeper skittering across the floorboards and clattering against the far wall. He jerks his gun, which draws McCree’s attention to the fact that the man is holding a six-shooter of his own, currently aimed across the room at the pair on the floor. McCree swallows, taking in the situation and trying to calculate his options.

None of them seemed good.

The man’s icy blue eyes dart briefly to Reaper’s comatose body, sizing him up, and then flitted back to lock with McCree’s when he confirmed that the man in black was out cold. His dirty blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, but a few long strands had pulled loose around his bangs and hung free, framing his haggard, stubble-brushed face as he looked McCree up and down degradingly. McCree was close to shrinking into the floor, retreating into his serape and wishing it would swallow him whole and get him out of this situation.

 “Jesse _fucking_ McCree,” Hawthorne spat on the floor, taking slow and measured steps across the room, gun still aimed steadily at McCree’s chest. “If both my hands were free, I’d clap. It ain’t every day that a twenty-some _dog_ rats us out. Took us years to recover from what you did, you know. Years to build our way back up. And you have the audacity to show your two-faced lyin’ mug back in this town.”

McCree’s breathing was coming quick and shallow, but he did his best to remain as still as he could. He bristled on the floor, shoulders hunched and teeth bared like a feral animal backed into a corner as he stood his ground on his knees in front of Reaper. “I didn’t rat you out. I got caught up in that sting same as the rest!”

Hawthorne let out something of a growl as he drew close. McCree eyed his gun on the other side of the room again, past Hawthorne’s legs. “Sure seems like you got off scot-free when it came time to do your sentence with the rest of ‘em.”

“They offered me a deal! I took it; they let me join them instead of going to prison–”

“And what did they give you for it?” Hawthorne demanded, lifting a dust-brushed boot to heavily kick McCree square in the chest, shoving him away from Reaper. The gunslinger let out a grunt as he fell back, catching himself on his right elbow as his other arm came up in front of him, shielding himself with his serape. “The belt buckle is new, and that armor plating, but you’re the same person you were before you left us.” Hawthorne stepped forward between McCree’s knees, the re-leveled gun a silent threat not to try and scramble away. McCree stared up the barrel, brown eyes narrowed but panicked.

“They gave me more than you ever did,” the gunslinger growls back, thinking of the prosthetic metal arm tucked under his serape. _They gave me that, even though they were the one to take it away in the first place_.

“A suit-wearing, rule-abiding organization meant to uphold a law that don’t serve nobody but themselves? What a joke! You gave in to their circle-jerk bureaucracy, but for what?” McCree clenched his jaw, feeling the corner of his upper lip twitch angrily to reveal a bared canine. “You know just as well as I do that you _lived_ for this. For _Deadlock_. You could never fit in with the likes of Overwatch, and as far as we’re concerned, you died the day you shook their filthy hand. Figures, that you came crawling back to us to finish the job for you.”

McCree saw Hawthorne’s finger reach to settle on the trigger, and he cast another hopeless look at his gun lying useless across the room, then to Reaper’s slumped figure a few feet away. So this was it, then. He’d die at the hand of the group that raised him, defending the man who stole him from his first life and molded him into the person he was now. Making the choice to throw away his first loyalties in favor of the loyalty he felt to Gabe, to Blackwatch, to Overwatch.

For all the fond memories he still had of Deadlock, the loneliness he felt in Overwatch paled in comparison to his gratitude for the chance to change his life and redeem himself, to come to terms with his morals and values, to do some good in the world, to save people and make up for his history. To bury his past and shape his future.

 “Any last words, Jesse?”

McCree didn’t know what to say. He had imagined his death so much, it felt more like a memory. He had considered the inevitability countless times before, sure that he’d be ready to face it when the time finally came. Ready to die valiantly, sacrificing himself for his team, going out in a blaze of glory and a timeless one-liner. Ready to save an innocent life, ready to die a hero, ready to give meaning to this long journey of righting his wrongs. Ready to close the book and know that he would live on, forever-celebrated.

But as he stared up at his past, he was at a loss for words. He couldn’t think of something witty to say, there was no audience to watch his last stand. There would be no meaning behind his death; Reaper would likely die soon-after, and thus the whole _point_ of McCree guarding him with his life would be for naught. He hadn’t accomplished anything spectacular in his life yet: his funeral would be nothing but a few textbook words, scripted and generic for lives lost in combat, and then his memory would blow away from everyone’s thoughts and that would be the end of Jesse McCree.

Shamefully, he shook his head, lifting the arm that was shielding his chest with his serape to pathetically duck his head behind it. Maybe he could hide from this, convince himself in the next few seconds before his death that it wasn’t about to happen. He took a final, steadying breath, drawing his arms into himself and feeling the cold metal of his wrist against his sweaty forehead. If this didn’t work out for him… _Gabe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. You tried to get me out and look what it got us._

Hawthorne aims at McCree’s chest through the serape, the muscles in his hand squeezing almost in slow motion around the gun, his knuckles turning white from the grip as he pulled his trigger finger back.

“Coward,” he muttered, and a deafening explosion shot from the muzzle.

McCree falls back, hitting the hard wood floor, unmoving in the ringing after-echo of the gunshot. His serape, worn and faded and threadbare at the hems, settled over him like a funeral covering— or a pool of blood. The bullet had torn through the fabric right over the left-side of his chest, the glint of silver metal visible behind it through the penny-wide hole.

Hawthorne waited for a few seconds, but nothing moved. Grimly satisfied, he stepped forward, nudging a knee between McCree’s legs as he kneeled down above him. He unceremoniously patted at McCree’s pockets before examining his hip-pouch, riffling through the pack and palming the spare rounds of ammo he found there. He tugged on the gold BAMF belt buckle, considering it for a moment, before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort of jerking the dead man’s belt off from around his waist. He patted McCree’s armor plating, feeling the sides for any extra hidden pockets or spaces, before his eyes light on the hat. Despite its dusty age, the brown leather Stetson was in good shape, the thin wearing on the brim only adding to its time-worn appearance. Smugly, the man reached to pull it from McCree’s head, leaving locks of sweaty brown hair strewn across the gunslinger’s slack face. He set the hat over his own head, tilting the brim a few times forward or back until it was sitting evenly across his brow, before examining the shawl wrapped around McCree’s shoulders and chest. The fabric was good-quality and although it had obviously seen better days, could definitely be taken as a prize if he didn’t want to actually wear it.

He began to unwrap it, tugging a corner out from under McCree’s body so he could pull it off. As he peeled it back, he lifted the fold with the bullet hole to reveal what was underneath.

A silver, metallic arm, the bullet lodged deep within the plating, lay over McCree’s chest. There was a sudden, instant realization – the serape, the gunslinger ducking his head to hide, no blood – before McCree’s eyes flew open and he heaved all his weight with the thigh pinned between Hawthorne’s knees. Hawthorne hollered as McCree’s leg connected with his groin, the gunslinger continuing the momentum to pull the man forward with him as he rolled backwards over his own shoulders until they both came down, McCree pinning the man on his back with a knee to his chest. Hawthorne snarls, teeth bared and spit flying as he scrambles to grab his gun, which has skittered just out of reach.

McCree easily extends an arm to hook the trigger-guard with one finger, pulling it in a semicircle out of Hawthorne’s reach and picking it up himself. Hawthorne falls quiet, eyes locked on McCree’s face in silent, disgusted betrayal.

“You sold out, Jesse,” he says, eyes steely, but he’s no longer struggling. There’s a prideful resignation in his voice, some kind of quiet honor he holds on to in the face of his own defeat.

“You could join us,” McCree starts, but Hawthorne cuts him off before he can finish his offer.

“You know damn well as I do that they won’t take me.”

“They took me in—”

“I don’t have what you have; I never learned to shoot like you could. They’ll take me to prison like the rest of us still alive. No one’s getting a second chance.”

McCree glances around the room, eyes landing on Reaper’s body. “I could vouch for you, Hawthorne, they trust me.”

Hawthorne laughs, a dark sardonic chuckle that McCree can feel through his knee still pressed to the man’s chest. “I don’t want the life you lead, Jesse. You abandoned your family. You broke my heart. Do you really think you want me back in your life after all that happened? I just tried to kill you.”

“So, what, you think I’m just gonna let you go? You know I can’t do that.”

“I know.”

“So what do you want, then? To go to prison?”

“You know what has to happen here. I ain’t goin’ to prison, that’s no life. If you want to do one last thing for me, this is it.”

McCree’s reply isn’t immediate. He considers the gun in his hand, glances over to Reaper again, glances down at Hawthorne on the floor. His shoulders feel heavy but there’s an inevitability that weighs even heavier on his heart. He meets Hawthorne’s eyes again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There’s a long beat before McCree silently clicks back on the hammer, the chamber spinning one notch to line up with the last loaded bullet. He presses the gun to Hawthorne’s forehead, holding it there for a second before reaching up with the same hand to remove his hat from the man’s head. He settles it back in place atop his own hair, the brim tilted perfectly with years of effortless practice. Leaning down, McCree hesitates inches from Hawthorne’s face, feeling the pinned man’s breath dampen his beard, before gently pressing their lips together. He holds the kiss for a second– no passion, just closure.

“One last heartbreak,” he says as he pulls away, removing his gun from Hawthorne’s forehead and pressing the muzzle over his heart instead. Hawthorne lets out a breath.

“Make it quick.”

Jesse pulls the trigger.

 

\---

 

He immediately feels sick.

Rolling off Hawthorne’s body, Jesse crawls his way back over to Reaper, dragging the dead weight of his damaged prosthetic arm behind him. He collapses next to his commander, – former commander, — heaving a shaking breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s killed countless times before, many messier than the clean swell of blood currently blooming from Hawthorne’s chest, but he had never before dealt with the emotional baggage of killing a previous friend. Or lover.

He knew he made the right decision, but _god_ was it still hard to justify.

His stomach churned when he realized he was still holding Hawthorne’s gun and he tossed it away, scrambling across the room to pick up his own discarded weapon, feeling the familiar curve of the grip and the hammer against his thumb as he picks it up. He swiped over the patterning a few times, digging the thumbpad of his glove into the grooves of the design, feeling Peacekeeper’s weight in his hand start to ground him once again. Something familiar. Something reliable.

Returning his gun to the safety of his holster, he pushed himself back across the room, avoiding the pool of blood that was now seeping out from under Hawthorne’s back. It crept forward from the epicenter, meeting the hard lines of the wooden floorplanks and running along the grain until it dipped down between the cracks. McCree shut his eyes against the sight, turning his back on it and instead focusing his attention on Reaper’s labored breathing.

“How much longer, Mercy?” He asked through the com, pressing a shaking palm to Reaper’s chest. The wraith let out a gurgling wheeze and McCree drew his hand back, startled, before reaching up to lift Reaper’s mask from Gabe’s face, sliding it up his forehead into his hood. Carefully, he repositioned Gabe’s arm so his head was leaning more forward, and he watched with growing worry as a trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, seeping into the scruff of the man’s beard.

Mercy’s voice crackled through his ear, shouting over the ongoing sound of gunfire. “We’re trying to reach you as fast as we can, McCree. Reinhardt suffered major injuries and we had to stay with him longer than expected. Try to hold out just a bit longer, we’ll be there soon.” Her voice cuts back out with a loud static sign-off before the transmission goes dead, and McCree wants to scream in frustration.

Gabe was getting worse.

McCree holds a hand in front of the man’s mouth, monitoring the faint warmth of his faltering exhales. Gabe’s breathing was labored, a quiet bubbling resonating in his chest, but as long as he was still sucking air into his lungs, McCree was satisfied. As long as Gabe didn’t die, Jesse would be satisfied.

Gabe’s own blood was now pooling around the gunslinger, but he didn’t move away.

“It’s okay, _jefe_ , I got you,” he murmured, wiping the blood from Gabe’s lips with a trembling finger. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He rocks back on his heels, wrapping his serape tighter around his shoulders as if to give himself a hug. He ducked his chin, resting it on his knees as he watched Gabe’s chest like a hawk. He didn’t think he could imagine what he’d do with himself if Gabriel didn’t make it out. He didn’t want to imagine.

God, what if Gabe had been in Hawthorne’s place just now; what if Jesse found himself pulling the trigger on Gabe’s life? He felt like it would be infinitely harder than what he had just done; after all, Gabe was the one to offer him the second chance to re-start his life. Offered him the opportunity to walk away from Deadlock with a clean slate. Saw something in Jesse that it took the younger man years to see in himself, more than just the ability to shoot a gun. He couldn’t imagine an alternate history where Gabe was Deadlock and Hawthorne was the one who got him out. Couldn’t imagine a scenario where Gabe was lying dead, with Jesse’s hand on the murder weapon. Couldn’t imagine if he had been aiming just a few inches lower years ago in the saloon when the soldier had reached the top of the stairs. He didn’t _want_ to imagine.

Gabe’s chest had stopped moving.

“Gabe!” Jesse yelled, lurching forward and fumbling to tear off his glove with his teeth, slipping a finger under Gabe’s hood to feel his neck. He leaned in close, cheek lingering just long enough in front of Gabe’s mouth to recognize the lack of breath and the sudden, eerie silence that came with the quieting of his gurgling wheezes. Oh shit, _oh shit_ —

“Mercy! Jack! He stopped breathing, I’m starting CPR. For fuck’s sake hurry up, we need you _NOW_ —”

Jesse stopped fumbling with his intercom, realizing that with only one useful arm he wouldn’t be able to interact with the headset and also give compressions. “Hang in there, McCree, we’re on our way,” Mercy responded. Jack’s response crackled to life through the speaker, overlapping Mercy’s own message. “Keep him alive, Jesse!”

He took a breath to steady the panic that was setting in before rolling Gabe’s unconscious body over onto his back. Gabe’s head lolled limply in his hood and Jesse swiftly tipped the man’s head back with trembling fingertips, before sitting up on his knees. “Stay with us, Gabe. Don’t leave me.”

He began compressions, locking his elbow as he heaved with his shoulder against Gabe’s sternum. Having only one arm was making it more difficult, and he found he had to throw his weight harder than expected to make it past the sturdy Kevlar layers of Reaper’s outfit. He counted the thrusts in his head, working his way up to thirty before stopping and leaning over Gabe’s face.

The dying man’s expression was almost peaceful, and Jesse’s hand is gentle as it caresses his face before he holds Gabe’s nose shut and takes a deep breath, locking their mouths together. He can taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue as it accidentally brushes his lips, and Jesse focuses on breathing forcefully into Gabe’s lungs to ignore it. The man’s chest expands beneath his black vest, and Jesse feels a small spark of relief at the visible response. He lifts his head to take another breath and then presses it to Gabe’s mouth again.

It strikes him that this is very different than the kiss he shared with Hawthorne just moments ago. The situation is almost grimly ironic.

Jesse breathes into him one last time before pulling away, sitting back up on his knees in Gabe’s bleedout and positioning himself above the man’s chest for another round of compressions. He can feel his body already growing tired, but he steels himself against the exhaustion and presses on.

He repeats the process for the longest three and a half minutes of his life before Mercy finally breaks in over his intercom.

“We’re here, we’re outside! Just a second, McCree,” she shouts, and Jesse is relieved to hear the echo of her voice in real-time from just downstairs as she and Soldier 76 pound up the steps.

Jesse is still doing compressions when they come flying around the upper landing, and 76 has to haul him up and out of the way so that Mercy can get close. She has already locked her staff’s beam onto Gabe’s body, the warm yellow tether trying its best but failing to sustain his vitals. Jesse watches with bated breath, although his body is now exhausted from continuing the compressions, and he notices that Jack has removed his visor and is shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Mercy darts over Gabe’s body; placing quick presses with her fingers to his neck, his chest, deftly touching his wounds, lifting his eyelids to check his unresponsive pupils. Her face is stern and somber and she pulls her staff closer to Gabe’s heart, as if the shorter distance will strengthen the beam, but the yellow glow just falters and fizzles out, leaving the room quiet and still in the dusty, filtered sunlight.

“We lost him, didn’t we?” Jack asks quietly, voice dangerously calm, and Jesse feels his blood run cold with ice. Mercy looks up at him, releasing the trigger on her staff.

“You can’t let this happen! He can’t die!” Jesse begs, feeling his knees weaken. Mercy gives him an understanding look, the smallest hint of a smile on her face, as she adjusts the settings on the staff and begins to power it up. He stares at her, wide-eyed and pleading.

“Heroes never die, McCree,” she assures him, turning back to Gabe and raising herself up to her knees. She spins her staff in the air above her head until it’s pointed down, lifting it high at the apex of its charge before slamming the tip down into Gabe’s chest. The contact blooms white, the caduceus staff pumping Gabe’s body full of searing electric charge until he jolts, gasping, back to life. Jesse watches through tear-blurred eyes as Gabe’s wounds close back up, abrasions melting together until his skin was smoothed over under the tears in his clothing. Gabe sputters and coughs, instantly curling in on himself and rolling to his side where he hacks and pants against the blood-soaked floor. Jack and Jesse are immediately on the ground beside him and under his arms, lifting him until he was sitting upright.

“Thank you,” Jack whispers to Mercy as she sets her drained staff aside. Jesse meets his commander’s relieved face, silently sharing the sentiment. Gabe is groaning in their arms, squeezing his eyes shut against the light.

“I feel like death warmed over,” he grumbles, voice hoarse and groggy. Jesse has never felt happier to hear a complaint in his life. On his other side, Jesse can feel Jack’s grip tighten protectively around Gabe’s arm.

“That’s not far from it,” Jack said, voice wavering through his smile. “Mercy brought you back.”

Gabe opened his eyes and focused his gaze on Mercy, sitting in front of him. She reached out and warmly took his hand in hers, clasping it fondly. “We couldn’t have you leaving us so soon, Gabriel,” she smiled. “Plus, Jesse kept your blood pumping until we could arrive. I doubt we could have dragged you back to life if he hadn’t been here to save you.”

Gabe turned his head to lock eyes with Jesse, who had been trembling on the verge of tears this whole time. The pride and gratitude in Gabe’s eyes made the gunslinger’s heart swell with affection.

“Thanks for returning the favor, kid,” Gabe chuckled, and Jesse couldn’t help but let out his own choked laugh. From Gabe’s other side, Jack gave Jesse a proud, grateful look of his own.

“I guess we’re even now, partner.”


	5. Chapter 5

The quartet eventually rose to their feet, escorting Reaper slowly back down the stairs despite his protests. Even though the wraith grumbled the whole way about how he could carry himself, his grip on both McCree’s and Soldier 76’s arms was tight, and the gunslinger smiled inwardly at that fact.

He had done a good job, despite the turmoil still rolling in his stomach. Killing Hawthorne to protect himself and Reaper, nearly getting killed himself, finally gaining some closure to his days in Deadlock, getting his arm damaged— it was all worth it in the long run to have Gabe still alive. It had all worked out. He had done well. He took a breath to clear his mind.

McCree wasn’t one for reading much, but Hawthorne dying was like the equivalent of closing a chapter that he had honestly already considered closed fifteen years ago. It was like reading an epilogue after an already-satisfying ending. Gabe dying would have been the equivalent of violently ripping out the last pages of a story so that the reader could never have closure.

McCree tightened his grip around Reaper’s arm just a bit, as if worried that the wraith would otherwise slip away.

“I’m sorry that I can’t fix your arm, McCree,” Mercy apologized as they crossed the ground floor of the building towards the front entrance. “It took all my staff’s power to revive Reaper. It will have to recharge before I can use it again.”

The gunslinger shrugged, the limp prosthetic swinging heavily from his shoulder. “S’fine. It was for a better cause, anyhow. I can wait.”

“We’ll have Torbjörn take a look at it when we get back,” 76 promised, ducking out from under Reaper’s arm and backing up flush against the doorframe ahead of them. “It’s been a while since you had an upgrade, right?”

McCree considered for a moment. “I reckon you’re right. Not since it was made, I don’t think. Maybe I could get rocket launchers—”

“Be realistic, McCree,” Reaper chided.

“Maybe get a flask in there—”

“McCree,” 76 shot down.

“Alright, fine: a little lighter so I can snap my fingers and light my cigar.”

“Tell you what; we’ll just let Mercy heal it when she can.”

McCree dismissed the soldier’s response, although now he was seriously considering talking to Torb about the lighter gimmick. 76 cocked his gun, leaning just enough to peer out from the doorframe to scout for danger. The rest of them waited for a signal, but after a second the soldier just dropped his weapon to his side and stepped out onto the porch with a sigh. McCree, Reaper, and Mercy shot one another confused looks, before Reaper led the way after 76 and they followed the soldier out into the daylight.

D.Va and Reinhardt were waiting for them in the middle of the street, posing. D.Va’s new mech had arrived, mostly-clean and free of battle scratches, and she had left it in a low, wide stance as she sat atop Reinhardt’s shoulder, flexing her arms. The German himself was leaning against his hammer, the head on the ground, armor glinting in the light as he showed it off. His shield was up behind them like a backdrop.

The two groups stared at one another for five, six, seven, eight seconds, before 76 finally broke the silence.

“Were you two…waiting for us?”

There was a beat before D.Va burst out laughing, breaking her pose and hopping down from Reinhardt’s shoulder as the man dissolved into amused chuckles beneath his armor. Her good mood was infectious and McCree found himself grinning at the antic, although 76 just looked lost and vaguely irritated.

“Did we look cool?” D.Va asked excitedly, laughter still bubbling in her voice as she climbed up into her mech. Reinhardt gave her a step up, helping her into the cockpit.

“I don’t know!” 76 grunted, exasperation tinting his voice. “Are there any more Deadlock members left? What if they shot you while you were dicking around?”

“We took care of the remaining enemies,” Reinhardt assured him, gesturing around at the otherwise empty street.  76 crossed his arms, unimpressed, but Reaper slipped past him and off the porch towards the duo.

“You looked very heroic,” the wraith declared, and although the whole thing had probably been D.Va’s idea, Reinhardt visible straightened up under his armor at the compliment.  Reaper glanced back over his shoulder at 76, tossing a jab in his direction. “C’mon, commander. Lighten up.”

McCree could see Soldier 76’s eyeroll in the way his head tipped subtly to the side. “Fine. You looked cool. Now can we finish moving these crates out of town, please? I would like to go home as soon as physically possible.”

D.Va gave him an over-the-top salute with one hand, her mech’s machine guns mimicking the motion. “You got it, commander!”

Mercy giggled softly as she too moved to step off the porch, gently placing a hand on 76’s shoulder to give him a few consoling pats. He visibly huffed, and McCree bit back another smile to keep from laughing at his grumpy behavior.

In 76’s defense, it _had_ been a long day, with a lot of close calls. The man was probably tired as hell from the stress.

Deciding to cut 76 some slack, McCree opted not to say anything to him as they headed back to the ledge with the remaining few crates and the still-tied Deadlock members. The group’s energy was starting to drain, footsteps a bit heavier and banter a little more sparse. The hostages started spitting curses at them once they drew close, but Reaper’s shotguns in their faces threatened them into sneering submission without the need to gag them.

The wraith stepped away, moving towards McCree as the rest of the group helped load D.Va’s mech with a crate. “You know any of them?”

McCree glanced at the Deadlock members, the same three from earlier plus two new individuals, tied up on the ground. None of them looked familiar.  “Nope.”

“Good. Then you can bring them to the rendezvous.”

The gunslinger found himself about to object, but his inability to raise his left arm to point offendedly at Reaper reminded him that he wouldn’t be any use carrying crates. Reaper reached into his pocket and fished out a small switchblade, flipping the knife open before handing the hilt to McCree. The gunslinger took it with a thankful dip of his head before kneeling down beside the hostage group and carefully slicing through the ropes around their ankles.

“Don’t even think about runnin’,” he warned as the youngest, the twenty-looking one, shifted his weight to bolt. “You ain’t gonna get very far.”

The kid scowled at McCree, the dried blood around his nose flaking with the expression. “And what if I do?”

McCree shot him an unimpressed glance, grabbing him around the arm and helping him to his feet. The kid shrugged his hand off as soon as he’d found his footing.

“Then I guess you’re gonna miss havin’ two legs,” McCree retorted, touching Peacekeeper in his holster with the tips of his fingers. Although it was a mostly-empty threat, the kid didn’t need to know that.

“That what happened to your arm?”

“None of your business,” McCree answered, stooping to help the last of the hostages to their feet. Although their legs were now free to walk, their arms were still tied behind their backs, making any faster of a pace something of an awkward workout if they were to try it. He folded the knife into his pocket, making a note to return it to Reaper later.

“You get shot the first time too? That why they had to replace it?”

It had been a long day, and McCree felt his patience for this conversation already wearing thin. “Don’t ask questions.”

The young Deadlock member didn’t listen. “You know, the cyborg arm doesn’t really go with your cowboy costume.”

“It’s not a costume.”

“Yeah it is. You look like a Halloween costume.”

“It’s not a costume, it’s just my outfit.”

“Your outfit is a costume.”

“Alright, we’re done talkin’ about this, partner.”

The kid’s eyes lit up in goading, delighted victory. “You even say _partner_? What movie did you step out of?” He turned to his fellow Deadlock hostages, encouraged by their growing enthusiasm. McCree rolled his eyes lazily, but he could feel his frustration growing.

“Har har, very funny.” _Why did that particular sentence sound familiar— oh, Reaper had just said it to him earlier that day._ McCree wondered briefly if Reaper had actually been this impatient with him joking about the ammo. He’d have to ask if the jesting had actually gotten on his nerves. “Less talkin’, more walkin’.”

“Nice rhyme, cowboy. I’m definitely gonna follow instructions from a poet.”

Good _grief_ , this kid was obnoxious. McCree shot a glance over to the rest of his team, who were finishing up sorting out the remaining crates. Reinhardt was carrying two, D.Va had one on her mech, and Reaper and Soldier 76 were just now lifting the last crate between them with Mercy’s help. As he glanced up, Reaper caught McCree’s pleading look.

“They giving you trouble, McCree?” He shouted, making the gunslinger grimace in quiet embarrassment. “Remind you of someone?”

It sure did: reminded him _exactly_ of himself when he had first been brought to Blackwatch. God, he had been such an insufferable little shit. How ironic that the tables had now turned.

“We’re good. Just makin’ sure no one gets cocky.”

McCree turns away from Reaper, leaning close to the Deadlock kid and pulling his gun from its holster, nudging the muzzle firmly against the kid’s gut. “ _Dead men don’t go to prison. Consider that carefully before you speak to me again, if you want any hope of ending up behind bars instead of six feet under._ ”

By some blessed miracle, whether it was the gun against his abdomen or the dark, warning glint in McCree’s eyes beneath the brim of his hat, the kid didn’t argue. McCree kept his gun in his hand, pulling away and roughly shoving the kid’s back to get him to start walking. Over the kid’s shoulder, McCree saw Reaper give him an impressed nod, before turning back to the crate he was carrying.

If he had threatened the Deadlock member any louder, Reaper would have heard the line that he himself had used on McCree years ago in the Blackwatch interrogation room.

They set out through the town one last time, leaving the ledge behind and making their way down the main drag. The walk to the rendezvous point was long and tiring, slowed by an occasional stumble from one of the hostages or by either Reaper or 76 having to stop and adjust their grip on the crate they were carrying. The desert sun was high in the sky now, the angle of the sharp shadows marking sometime in the early afternoon and the sweltering heat making the horizon ripple in waves.

McCree’s feet dragged through the dust as he trailed the group, keeping a tired but watchful eye on the Deadlock hostages plodding along ahead of him as he bit back a yawn. His body was exhausted, his muscles were sore, his mechanical arm was limp and heavy and swung awkwardly when he walked. The gunslinger paused a moment, wrapping his serape under the elbow of his left arm and tying it up as a sling around his neck, before catching back up with the group. There— at least that was one small inconvenience solved.

Almost immediately his stomach growled, and McCree groaned quietly in defeat. He couldn’t wait for this day to be over: he was looking forward to a good meal, a hot shower, comfy clothes, and a soft bed. He allowed himself to fantasize about the relaxing evening, letting his mind wander off as his body switched to auto-pilot. Maybe get something with red meat for dinner, maybe some starch—potatoes? He was in the mood for mashed potatoes, he thought. Maybe some vegetables too, or sautéed onions at least. A pot roast sounded delightful. Even a burger would be good, but he’d probably only have the time and energy to heat up something from the freezer. Maybe a microwave dinner and curl up on the couch in the break room to watch some episode of a shitty reality show while he ate. Go stand in the shower for forty minutes under the hot water once he was done with dinner. Then slip into sweatpants and a t-shirt and fall into bed early.

It sounded simple, but just like what he needed after a mission like this.

It was a welcome sight when they finally rounded the corner of the outskirts and saw the Overwatch cargo aircraft waiting for them, loading doors open and figures in the middle of ferrying crates into the helicopter. Someone spotted them as the mission group drew closer, waving a hand in their direction, but McCree was too far away to make out who it was through the rippling curtain of heat. The group picked up its pace, spurred on by the promise of the approaching finish line, eager to make it to the carrier and offload the crates. McCree would be glad to be rid of the Deadlock hostages he was babysitting.

The hostages didn’t pick up their pace, and the gunslinger ended up walking alongside them as they neared the helicopter. Apprehension worried their faces, the youngest one looking like an anxious mess between scared and stubborn. He stopped defiantly in his tracks at one point, taking in the overwhelming size of the cargo carrier as they passed under its shadow, but McCree’s firm hand on his shoulder pushed him along reluctantly.

“You’ll be fine,” he assured, surprising himself with the statement. The kid didn’t respond, just knitted his eyebrows together and allowed himself to be guided silently towards the loading ramp.

“Welcome back, everyone,” Ana’s warm voice called out from the top of the ramp. McCree glanced up as they approached, slowing his speed to let the rest of the group to haul the crates up to the loading door ahead of him.

“Good to see you, Ana,” Soldier 76 grunted as they made it to the top, stepping carefully over the threshold and onto the carrier. Reaper maneuvered the crate to the side so he could watch his footing as he followed 76 into the cargo bay, mumbling a greeting to the sniper as they passed out of the hot desert air into the stuffy, only slightly-cooler air inside the chopper. The group brought the crates to the back of the cargo hold, dropping them off with the other ones that had already been loaded in. As McCree entered with the hostages, two of the ship’s armed crew approached and guided the Deadlock members away, presumably to a holding room where they’d remain for the duration of the trip. McCree watched them as they went, half-hoping to catch the youngest one’s eye before they were escorted out, but the kid kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground and McCree didn’t have the chance.

 “Was Mercy unable to heal this for you?” Ana inquired, and the gunslinger turned towards her as she approached, attention fixed on the arm slung up in his serape. McCree let her tug back the serape to better-examine the bullet hole in his forearm. She turned his arm slightly, inspecting the shredded metal and wiring running between the fine motors.

“Naw. She had to drain her staff before she could get to me,” he explained as Ana huffed and pulled the makeshift sling back into place.

“We had a slightly more pressing matter,” Mercy elaborated from nearby, tossing a pointed glance at Reaper as he helped to finish securing the crates, talking quietly with Soldier 76.

“Well, I am glad to see you all made it back safely.” Ana declared, patting the gunslinger’s arm. “Lives are harder to replace than wounded parts.”

“Agreed,” McCree and Mercy replied in unison as the others finished up with the crates and re-joined the group.

“Can we go home now?” D.Va complained, opening the front shield of her mech’s cockpit and slumping exaggeratedly over the controls. Soldier 76 shot her a sympathetic look.

“Just about. The crew will need to do a few more things before we can leave, but the mission is over. You’re off-duty, as far as I’m concerned.”

D.Va’s tired cheer melded with everyone else’s worn-out noises of enthusiasm. She pulled herself back into the pilot’s seat, retiring her mech to a corner of the cargo bay and powering it down before climbing down from the cockpit. Reinhardt followed her, helping with the straps to secure the mech for transit so it wouldn’t go flying if they hit turbulence.

“McCree, we can get you patched up on the flight back,” Ana offered, tapping his arm with a finger.

“That’d be swell, thank you.”

“Meet me in the medical bay and we can get to work,” the sniper said, stepping away towards the doors that exited the cargo hold. McCree nodded in response, about to follow, before Soldier 76 stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Good work out there today, McCree,” 76 said, taking the gunslinger by surprise. It was rare for the soldier to comment on his performance at all, much less compliment him on a job well-done. Normally he would have expected a reprimand for not correctly following orders.

McCree blinked. “Even after the horse thing?”

Soldier 76 sighed, looking like he immediately wanted to take back the praise. “Yes, even after the horse thing. I appreciated your quick-thinking on the field.”

McCree held his gaze, almost suspicious of the soldier’s words, and nodded carefully in acknowledgement. “Well, thank ya, commander,” he began, watching Reaper glide past, crossing behind 76 and nudging the soldier’s back with his shoulder lightly as he did so. “Figured it’d be easier to just take off than to explain myself first.”

“And in this instance, you made the right call.” McCree was legitimately wary of the praise at this point, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thank you for watching Reaper’s back, too. Like Mercy said, he wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t been with him.”

The gunslinger shrugged, watching Reaper speak with Ana a few yards away before glancing around the cargo hold absently. “Just doin’ my job.”

“Well, keep it up.” 76 said, just before Ana raised her voice to interrupt them.

“ _Yallah_ , McCree!” She barked, snapping her fingers in his direction. “Let’s go!”

“Sorry, commander,” he stammered apologetically, backing away in Ana’s direction. Soldier 76 chuckled understandingly, waving him off. McCree ducked away, loping off to catch up with Ana as she led him upstairs towards the small on-board med bay.

 

\---

 

Lying down on the reclined examination table in the quiet medical room, McCree felt like he could almost fall asleep. About ten minutes after arriving he could feel the cargo carrier’s heavy engines whir to life, the dull drone of the rotary blades spinning outside. He sighed and settled deeper into the plastic-cushioned surface, feeling the entire room hum as the aircraft prepared for liftoff, before the telling drop in his stomach a few minutes later let him know they had finally left the ground.

Ana returned from the small storage room in the corner, closing the door behind her and setting her supplies on the tray table next to McCree. Leaning over him, she grabbed the overhead light and pulled it closer, turning it on and making the gunslinger squint through his closed eyes.

“So, you took a bullet for Gabriel’s life?” She asked conversationally, pulling the packaging off of a set of vials and tossing the plastic in the trash can. McCree kept his eyes closed, enjoying their reprieve from the desert’s sting, but he nodded in response.

“He took one for me first,” he admitted, lifting his good arm to tap his side where Gabe had been shot. “Pushed me outta the way so I didn’t get hit.”

“You still got hit,” Ana corrected, making McCree grin in admission.

“True. But it wasn’t the same occasion,” he countered. “I got shot maybe ten minutes later, after dragging his sorry ass to safety.”

The gunslinger’s curiosity got the better of him when Ana popped something air-tight, and he opened his eyes to watch her work. She had uncorked the rubber stopper on one of the vials, setting the bottle down carefully on the tray as she picked up a still-lidded vial and stuck a syringe in through the rubber lid to draw up the contents inside.

“Same shooter?”

“Yeah, same guy.”

“Did he get away?” She asked, holding the vial and syringe up to eye-level to check the measurements. McCree felt his stomach drop slightly, most likely due to a change in altitude.

“No, he was…taken out,” the gunslinger said. Ana’s gaze slipped briefly to look at him, and McCree glanced away.

“By Gabriel?”

“No.”

Ana didn’t seem to need to follow up and ask who. She added the contents of her syringe to the open bottle, before grabbing a different needle and moving on to the next vial. “Gabriel mentioned that you knew the shooter.”

“We reckoned there might be that possibility. Most of Deadlock is new faces, but I figured at least a few of ‘em from my days might still be around.”

Ana hummed quietly, extracting the syringe from the stopper and introducing the liquid into the rest of the mix in the bottle. “Did he recognize you?”

McCree glanced around again, before settling his head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“Did that make it hard to kill him?”

McCree frowned. “This is soundin’ an awful lot like twenty questions. This some kind of psych evaluation?”

“Gabriel may have asked me to check on you. Evidently you shot the man through the heart. You are trained for headshots.”

McCree felt his stomach drop again, and this time he knows it’s not from the turbulence. He tapped his fingers against the table, worrying his ring finger against the tip of his thumb through his glove. “We had a talk after Gabe passed out,” he explained reluctantly. “It wouldn’t have felt right.”

“Did you engage anyone after that?” Ana pressed, moving on to the third and final vial in her lineup.

“No.”

Ana made a quiet hmm as she worked with the vial. “We may want to make sure this didn’t affect your performance.”

“I’m fine, Ana.”

“Just to be sure.”

“Ana, I’m fine.” McCree turned his head to look at the sniper as she finished mixing her serums. “A guy I knew fifteen years ago tried to kill me, so I did what I had to. It ain’t gonna stick to me— I promise.”

Ana smiled gently, the crows’ feet at the corner of her eyes crinkling. She set her bottle aside and pulled out a long rubber tube, screwing it in to a sterile spray gun that was hanging from the hooks overhead. “Gabriel wanted me to make sure you were alright. We all care about you, McCree, we want to know that you’re safe and healthy.”

The gunslinger’s mouth slipped into a small smile as Ana powered up a small tank of liquid, watching the control lights flash on one by one as it charged up. His mind wandered to Gabe, wondering if those were the words he used when he was speaking quietly with Ana earlier. The man died, yet he was worried about McCree’s wellbeing.

“Is Gabe gonna get an eval too? He was literally dead for a while there. I think that might take a mental toll on a guy, too.”

Ana laughed, unlocking the lid of the tank and pouring the bottle’s contents into the chamber carefully. “I will personally speak with him too, have no fear.”

McCree settled back in the chair, satisfied. “Good. I just wanna make sure he’s _safe and healthy_ ,” he said, using Ana’s phrasing.

Ana quirked an eyebrow in his direction as she screwed the other end of the tube into the serum-filled tank. “I appreciate your concern for your teammate, but if you’re that worried about him, you _can_ go talk to him yourself, you know.”

“Like how he asked you to check on me instead of doing it himself?”

“ _Men,_ ” Ana muttered with a sigh, flipping a switch on the small tank that turned on a warm yellow light inside the glass container. The serum began to slowly simmer. “Can’t talk about their feelings, always have to use a messenger.”

“That ain’t true!” McCree balked, fixing Ana with a pout. “I talk about my feelings all the time.”

“If by circling a subject so often that you think you’ve drawn attention to it counts as ‘talking,’ then by all means, you’ve made _speeches_.”

McCree blinked at her as she experimentally pulled the trigger on the nozzle in her hand. “What’d’ya mean?”

Ana’s airgun let out a small spray of yellow glow, and she seemed content to wait a bit longer for the tank to finish doing its job. She turned and fixed him with a pointed look. “You mean a lot to him, Jesse.”

The use of his first name was a little startling; Ana and he normally only ever interacted in regards to missions, and he was used to her referring to him as McCree. She had been doing so up until this point. In fact, even the others tended to only ever call him McCree outside of missions, with the exception of—

Well, with the exception of Gabe.

Gabe. Not Gabriel, not Reaper, not Reyes. Jesse called him Gabe, and Gabe called him Jesse. A familiar, first-name basis that the rest of Overwatch didn’t seem to use. Ana had just called him Jesse, though. Maybe to make a point, maybe to make him think, maybe she just wanted him to feel comfortable.

He watched as she set the spray nozzle down, moving to unwrap his serape from around his arm. He leaned forward a bit to help her slip the fabric out from behind his shoulders.

“He means a lot to me too,” McCree mused as Ana laid out his damaged arm by his side.

“ _Smallah_ ,” she doted, picking up the nozzle again and pulling it in close to McCree’s arm. This time when she pulled the trigger, a warm golden mist sprayed from the tip. She angled it close to the bullet hole, coating the damaged metal with the serum for about fifteen seconds, before pulling away satisfied.

“That will repair the damage in a few minutes. It may take up to half an hour for you completely regain control over your hand. Just take it easy until you’re patched up, and you’ll be good as new.”

“Thank you, Ana,” McCree answered, settling his head back against the cushion of his hat and closing his eyes again. His exhaustion was catching up to him, probably not helped by the soothing healing properties of the serum that Ana had just used. The gunslinger let out a deep sigh, hearing Ana clearing away the tray table next to him, and was grateful when she turned off the overhead light, returning it to its upright position above the examination table.

_I talk about my feelings,_ he thought stubbornly as his mind drifted, relaxed. _I talk about them so much._ Although he couldn’t quite figure out what emotions they were that he shared so openly. _I talk a lot, don’t I? I’m not afraid to make jokes. Gabe and I joke about all sorts of things all the time. That counts as opening up, right?_

Ana finished returning things to order and left the room with a soft “ _rest up,_ ” closing the door gently behind her. McCree acknowledged her with a content grunt, although she might have already been gone by the time he did.

_We had some good banter today, even. Lots of joking. He asked about my spurs and I made that quip about kinky sex. That’s funny, right? He laughed, at least, so he probably thought it was funny. I hope he thought it was funny. If we can joke about kinky sex, then that means nothing’s off the table, right? Ana doesn’t know what she’s talking about: Gabe and I can talk to each other about any topic. We aren’t avoiding anything._

A small voice in the back of his tired mind echoed Ana’s statement from earlier: _If by circling a subject so often that you think you’ve drawn attention to it counts as ‘talking,’ then by all means, you’ve made speeches._

Jokes were just conversations that were funny. They weren’t avoiding talking about anything, and he certainly wasn’t avoiding talking about something so much that the circles he was making around the subject was essentially the same as circling it with a bright red marker.

Gabe meant a lot to him. The friendship they had meant a lot to him. He cherished it with every fiber of his being and relied on Gabe’s constancy to get him through Overwatch. He knew they were close, there was no denying that. Gabe was probably closer to him than he was with anyone else in Overwatch, too, maybe with the exception of Commander Morrison, but he assumed that was mainly just due to the nature of their jobs and their history together in the army. And like Ana had said earlier, _“You mean a lot to him, Jesse.”_

_He means a lot to me too,_ his mind reiterated.

“Shut up,” the gunslinger grumbled to the empty room, turning over and stubbornly going to sleep before his mind could formulate a response in the image of Gabe’s bright, warm smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through writing this I realized I was characterizing Ana as my grandmother, so I decided to go with it. "Yallah" generally means come on/hurry up/let's go, whereas "smallah" is harder to define but is often used as a sort of bless you/praise it/god willing/compliment.


	6. Chapter 6

He felt like he’d slept more than the half an hour he was expecting to when he finally came around, and an experimental flex of his left hand supported that theory. The dry feeling in his mouth made him think he had been asleep a bit longer than anticipated, and he licked his lips to try and erase the sandy taste from his tongue.

The med bay room was dim, but not dark, and the motion-activated lights turned back on once he shifted up on the examination table to stretch. He squinted against the glare and yawned, pulling off his glove so that he could wipe the sleep away from the corners of his eyes. His arm seemed fully-healed, and his body was lethargic from dozing but he didn’t feel as tired as he had been a while ago. He figured maybe he’d been out for an hour, hour and a half?

He sat up further, slumping his weight over his waist and reaching his arms as far towards his toes as he could stretch, feeling the stretch warm his muscles, before swinging his feet off the edge of the table and onto the ground. He found his serape, neatly folded on the stainless steel tray table next to him where Ana had left it, and wrapped it over his shoulders where it belonged. He caught sight of the bullet hole over the left side and frowned as he remembered its existence— he’d have to see if he could get that patched when they got back to base.

With a groan of protest, he heaved himself off the table and to his feet, taking a moment to stretch his limbs again before skirting around the other side of the table to the door.

He was worried he wouldn’t know where he was when he left the room, but when the door slid open at the touch of his fingers on the wall-pad, he found himself with a partial view of the main lounge area in the center of the aircraft. Half of his teammates were present, either sitting at the tables around the edge of the room, curled up with a laptop in the beanbag chair in the corner, or occupying the u-shaped couch in the recessed center of the room. At the sound of the med bay door sliding open, a familiar beanied-head turned and craned over the top of the couch to catch his eye.

“How’s the arm? Did you get those rocket launchers you wanted?”

The gunslinger smiled, stepping out of the doorway and into the main room. He lifted his newly-repaired arm and raised his middle finger at Gabe, showing off the recovery. “Good as new. Ana packed it full of surprises.”

Gabe chuckled, sliding over on the couch where he was sprawled so that there was some room on the cushions next to him. “Come join us, asshole. Unless you wanted to sleep the last two hours before we get back home, too.”

Two hours? The flight back to base was at least six, maybe seven, considering that they had to cross the ocean. The gunslinger blinked, backtracking to his nap and estimating that he must have been out a lot longer than he had thought. Did he really pass out for that long?

Knowing his penchant for sleep, probably.

He grinned sheepishly, leaving the doorway behind and ambling towards the lowered floor with the recessed couch, dropping over the back of the cushions onto the seat next to Gabe. He settled himself down, realizing everyone else had long-since discarded their mission outfits and were now lounging in more relaxing clothes. Gabe shuffled over on the couch next to him, wearing a black tank top and loose grey sweatpants that were undoubtedly more comfortable than the tight black standards that he wore on the field. The gunslinger felt a bit out of place, still in his mission attire.

He toed off his boots, kicking them to the ground with a jangle of spurs, then hesitated. “Actually, tell you what. I’ll be right back,” he excused himself, getting up off the couch only a few moments after having sat down.

Gabe let out a half-grunted acknowledgement, stretching to reclaim his space on the cushions as the gunslinger padded around the couch and towards the back of the lounge room where their lockers lined the wall. He made a beeline towards his, popping the latch and swinging the metal door open.

He grabbed his casual clothes from the hanger, and then headed into the bathroom a few doors down the hallway to change in private. The first thing to go was his serape, although he folded it gently and set it aside carefully on the counter. It took him a few minutes to divest himself of his armor, feeling immediately lightened when the brass plating fell away from his chest. He peeled off his glove and stretched his arm, flexing his fingers, before working at unbuckling his chaps and stripped off his pants. As he did so, he remembered Gabe’s switchblade in his pocket, and grabbed the small knife before folding his jeans.

He quickly finished changing into a white t-shirt and grey sweats that matched Gabe’s, then re-draped his serape over his shoulders. The warm red fabric was familiar, something that he preferred to keep with him even if it did sometimes blur the line between being on-duty or off. He plopped his hat back onto his head, too, deciding to keep it with him as well.

Jesse gathered up his belongings in his arms, double-checking that he had everything, before leaving the bathroom and returning his clothes to his locker. He pulled his phone out of the cabinet when he got back, powering it up after it had been turned off for the two days since they’d been on the mission. The screen came to life, running through the boot sequence, and he tucked it under his chin as he stuffed his clothes back into his locker before shutting the door.

The gunslinger turned and wandered back to the couch, flopping over the back and sliding down the seat cushions onto his stomach without giving Gabe time to move his legs. The other man grumbled, trying to pull his feet back in, but Jesse’s heavy weight and lanky limbs kept them pinned.

“Can you move your ass?” Gabe asked, leaning forward to swat pointedly at Jesse’s back with one hand. The gunslinger laughed, not making an effort to get up.

“Naw.”

“Dick,” Gabe grunted and swatted him one more time before pulling out his phone with a resigned sigh, opening his email and beginning to filter through the things that had accumulated in his inbox since they’d been away. Jesse lounged where he was a bit longer, considering doing the same but knowing that he wouldn’t have much in his email besides all-user announcements from management that didn’t really pertain to him, and some upcoming training schedules that he could just as easily check later that night. Gabe probably had to wade through a lot more work-related conversations and was undoubtedly part of some administrative email chains, despite no longer officially being part of the commanding staff.

Judging by Gabe’s constant swiping-right, it seemed like he was deleting most of the emails without even reading them.

Jesse shifted his weight just a bit in order to reach his own phone, brushing the knife in his pocket as he did so. Remembering that he still had it, he pulled it out and flopped his arm towards Gabe’s chest in a lazy attempt at returning the switchblade.

“This is yours,” he explained, and Gabe glanced up from his phone long enough to recognize the item.

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Gabe took his knife back and slipped it into his own pocket, glancing back at his phone’s screen briefly before lying it down on his chest. “Hey, so everyone’s going out for drinks tomorrow night to celebrate. You coming?” He asked.

Jesse glanced up, considering the offer, although he didn’t feel too enthused by the idea. “Maybe.”

“That’s an ‘ _I’m politely declining but saying maybe to make you feel better_ ’-maybe, right?”

“You know me well.”

“Come on, Jesse,” Gabe implored, kicking his leg under the gunslinger’s body and jostling him. “It’ll be fun. Why do you want to stay home?”

Jesse shrugged uncomfortably. “Not really a fan of large drinkin’ groups. Too much pressure,” he started, not really sure how to explain it. “Plus, everyone else has their own friends on the team. I feel like after a while the group’ll split up and I’ll be left drinkin’ alone.”

“Is that really the reason?” Gabe asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re afraid of being left out?”

Jesse shrugged again, pursing his lips. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Do you need me to be your drinking buddy?”

Jesse let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Naw, you ain’t gotta do that. Just…I might stick near you, just to be with someone. If that’s alright,”

“You can be my arm candy.” Gabe assured him, grinning broadly. Jesse smiled lopsidedly at the term.

“Well shucks, ain’t you sweet, Gabe.”

“Least I could do for the man who saved my life. Tell you what, first drink’s even on me.”

“Nice. I’ll order the most expensive one they’ve got,” Jesse smirked, earning himself another knee to the ribs as Gabe retaliated by kicking his leg.

“What, you think I’m made of money?” Gabe complained, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing the gunslinger with an unimpressed look. “I’m not your sugar daddy.”

“Well, Hana did bring up how you reload your shotguns—” Gabe’s groan cut him off and Jesse instantly remembered his own revelation when he was dealing with the Deadlock hostages. “—Right, did that actually bother you? Sorry if we were ribbing on you too hard earlier.”

“No, it’s fine,” Gabe admitted, making a small rush of relief bloom in Jesse’s chest. “It was all just banter, anyway. I can take a joke.”

_Banter_ , Jesse remembered.

Ana’s conversation floated back to him and he squirmed uncomfortably, trying to keep the words from resurfacing in his mind. He was happy to stay like this, not ruin his own comfort by considering things that he didn’t want to admit might exist just beneath the surface of their relationship. It would be easier to stay this comfortable with Gabe if he didn’t acknowledge that their closeness might be a little too close, a little too joking, a little too-steeped in years together in Blackwatch.

Don’t dig too deep. Just let it stay as this easy-going, effortless thing that it had always been.

_Gabe looks damn good in a tank top,_ Jesse realized, unsurprised.

The gunslinger must have been making some kind of face, because Gabe’s eyebrows were slowly coming together in the silence that followed his words. “What, you don’t think I can take a joke?” He demanded, feigning hurt, and Jesse’s attention snapped back to the situation.

“Ha ha, no, of course not,” he scrambled, trying to catch back up to the conversation.

“‘ _Of course not,_ ’ as in I can, or can’t?” Gabe pushed for clarification. Jesse rolled his eyes, feeling strangely awkward and aware of himself, still lying on Gabe’s legs. He pushed himself off, falling back against the other arm of the couch as if putting space between them would cool his body heat, feet tucking into the crevice between the cushions near Gabe’s legs.

Jesse wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be nice and tell Gabe he could take a joke, or continue jesting and tell him he couldn’t. Instead, he settled for a cheeky shrug, letting Gabe interpret his silence how he would. This conversation suddenly wasn’t coming to him as naturally as it had been earlier.

_Thanks, Ana._

“So what’s the plan when we get back to base?” Jesse asked, changing the subject. “I assume we’re going to interrogate the hostages, and…do something with the stolen weapons? Where are those going, anyway?”

Gabe’s eyebrows were still slightly furrowed, contemplating Jesse from across the couch. The gunslinger glanced aside before looking back, feeling scrutinized, but stubbornly stuck to his change of topic and waited for an answer. Eventually, Gabe broke his stare and sighed, shrugging.

“The weapons are going down to confiscation for lock-up. We might look into deploying some of them in the field elsewhere, but that’s up to Jack and his higher-ups. The hostages will go to interrogation.”

“Will that be you or Morrison? Interrogating the hostages, I mean.”

“I’ll be talking with them.” Gabe held up a hand as Jesse opened his mouth to interject. “ _Just talking._ Overwatch isn’t too keen on how we interrogated in Blackwatch. We’re just going to find out how much of Deadlock is left and how far their reach goes, then Jack’s going to send them to lockup.”

Jesse settled back further against the arm rest. “Be nice to the kid, would ya? He doesn’t deserve to be here.”

“What, found a soft spot for one already?” Gabe laughed, but Jesse just shrugged apologetically. “I’ll go easy on him. But I’m not offering him to join us, if that’s what you’re getting at. That was a one-time thing— we only have one spot for a cowboy asshole, and the position’s currently filled.”

Jesse freed one of his feet from the crack between the cushions to playfully kick Gabe’s leg. “Rude. The kid doesn’t even like cowboys, anyhow. He insulted my outfit.”

“What’s there not to insult?” Gabe retorted, smacking Jesse’s foot back to the depths of the couch cushions.

“ _Rude!_ ” The gunslinger reiterated, pretending to be offended. “There ain’t nothing wrong with my outfit.”

“I’m not entirely sure that any of it serves a purpose, is all.”

“Everything I wear serves a purpose!”

“Even those spurs?” Gabe taunted, leaning down to snatch up one of Jesse’s boots that had been discarded on the floor in front of the couch. He pulled it back towards his side of the couch, out of Jesse’s reach, and waggled it teasingly.

“Maybe not everything serves a purpose _on the field_ ,” Jesse objected, crossing his arms with a subtle pout. “But hey, they came in handy today, didn’t they?”

“You _can_ ride a horse without spurs, you know,”

“Yeah, well I didn’t have to, ‘cause I was wearing ‘em.”

Gabe snorted, rolling his eyes. He turned the boot over in his hand, holding the heel and running a finger along the metal spines of the wheel. “You ever use these as weapons?”

“Weapons?”

“Yeah, like have you ever considered kicking someone with them.”

Jesse considered a moment. “I guess they’d be pretty nasty,” he conceded, watching Gabe experimentally roll the spurs down his palm and across the underside of his elbow. The spikes dug little light-colored pinpricks that faded as it wheeled gingerly across his dark skin. “Never really thought about it though.”

Gabe tipped his head, idly switching to rolling the wheel back and forth across his leg through his sweats. “Might be worth considering training your reflexes for.”

“Maybe. Although if anyone gets close enough I tend to just flashbang them.”

“That’s good too. Just make sure that if you ever _do_ kick someone with them, you sterilize them before using them for your ‘ _kinky sex_.’”

Jesse’s bark of laughter echoed around the lounge, drawing at least one pair of eyes to him. The response _may_ have been a bit louder than expected, and he embarrassedly slid further down into the couch, hiding his red ears beneath his hat. “I was kiddin’ about that, you know.”

Gabe shrugged, rolling the spur across his lap to his other thigh. “I wasn’t sure. But you could definitely use them; they’re essentially wartenberg wheels.

“‘ _Essentially wartenberg wheels,_ ’ he says casually,” Jesse commented. “I’m assuming those are the spinny metal torture things, right?”

Gabe chuckled, careful to lift the spines away from his leg as he did so to keep from stabbing himself on accident. “You don’t use them for torture, really, but yes,” he explained, re-placing the wheel against the fabric of his pants and watching the points snag on the material. “You’re supposed to use it gently on the skin.”

“Hell, that ain’t kinky at all,” Jesse argued, earning a surprised look from Gabe.

“Define kinky; you sound like you’re thinking about super heavy shit. It’s just a sensual toy, some people find it stimulating. It doesn’t have to be intense.”

“I guess it depends on where you use it?” Jesse mused aloud, curiosity piqued enough to press the subject although a nagging voice in the back of his mind begged him to drop it. Gabe shrugged, gesturing to Jesse’s feet that were tucked in the couch close to him. Jesse squelched the voice, assuring it that he could play this cool.

“May I?” Gabe asked.

The gunslinger nodded in permission, a small thrill chasing down his spine as he extended one leg towards Gabe. The other man carefully laid the tip of the spur against Jesse’s ankle, pausing a second, before rolling it gently up the fabric of his pants on the side of his calf and along the outside of his thigh. Jesse held himself still, worried that if he shifted too much that the spines would bite into his skin, but Gabe held the boot steady as he slowly drew towards the top of the gunslinger’s leg, nearing the top of his thigh, before reversing direction. He rolled back down to about Jesse’s knee before he lifted it off, and Jesse let out a small breath of air that he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“See? Depends on where it’s used, but it can feel nice.”

Jesse nodded in agreement, mouth suddenly as dry as it had been when he first woke up earlier. “I reckon. It’s kinda relaxing.”

“Sure, relaxing is one way to describe it,” Gabe noted, turning the boot in his hand and handing it safely back to Jesse by the heel. The gunslinger took it, trying to coolly run the spur over the skin of his arm as disinterestedly as Gabe had done earlier. The pinpricks weren’t nearly as electric as they had been on his leg- either the skin here wasn’t as sensitive, or he was suffering from the same effect as trying to tickle himself.

Jesse considered asking Gabe to try the wheel on his arm for him to see if it would feel different, but he felt like they were about to move away from the topic, having exhausted the conversation, which disappointed him in a small way. In the back of his mind he had hoped that they could continue talking about this kind of stuff— he wasn’t exactly sure why, but he wanted to show off. Reveal small bits of himself that Gabe would find interesting. He wanted the opportunity to brag a bit, casually hint at some stories that raised more questions than they answered.

That’s how it had always been with Gabe.

Jesse didn’t have anyone else he was this close with that he could talk to—he figured that’s why he hoped Gabe would allow him the opportunity to explore the conversation. Unfortunately Gabe fell quiet, remembering his phone in his hand and returning to scrolling the sea of emails in his inbox. Jesse watched him for a bit, before his eyes flicked up and around the room, rolling the spur in his palm absently.

Hana was sitting with her laptop on a beanbag chair in the corner, headset in place and attention fixed on her screen. Judging by the quick mouse movements and her fingers furiously clacking on her keyboard, he guessed she was in the middle of a game. He rolled his head, scanning lazily around the rest of the room. Mercy was at the table with her own tablet, sipping a cup of what Jesse assumed was coffee. Reinhardt’s voice was muffled but coming from down the hallway, in the direction of the cockpit, and the gunslinger caught a glimpse of Commander Morrison crossing the hallway and closing a door behind him.

Gabe was occupied now and the conversation was over, and Jesse didn’t think they’d get back to the topic again. He sighed quietly, closing his eyes and rubbing his beard. If he hadn’t just taken a five-hour nap, the gunslinger might have wanted to doze off the pass the time. He considered instead maybe just scrolling his phone, finding a video to watch quietly, but Gabe spoke up and interrupted him before he could do so.

“So you’ve never used one? A wartenberg wheel, I mean,” Gabe commented, a little to Jesse’s delighted surprise. The gunslinger shook his head with a small hum, tossing the boot back onto the floor with the other one. “So the whole kinky sex thing was a bluff?”

“Hold on now, I wouldn’t call it a bluff,” Jesse corrected flatly. “I’ve had kinky sex before. Just never used the spurs is all.”

“Oh really? Five-minute McCree isn’t vanilla after all?” Gabe glanced up from his phone and gave Jesse a discrediting smirk, making the gunslinger huff and cross his arms indignantly.

“Now I told you, that ain’t true. I messed up the joke. You’re really gonna hold it against me?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“You’re a dick. You know that, Gabe?” Jesse complained, much to Gabe’s amusement.

“So I’ve been told.”

Jesse’s face broke into a half-smile and he teasingly kicked Gabe’s leg with his foot. “What an asshole. Biggest dick award goes to Gabriel Reyes.”

Gabe winked and Jesse realized his wording too late, groaning and covering his face in his hands. “That wasn’t supposed to be a compliment, y’know.”

“No, but I’m going to take it as one,” Gabe decided, prompting Jesse to kick his leg again. The man chuckled, obviously pleased with himself, and slouched down on the couch to continue scrolling through his emails, still smiling. Jesse took the opportunity to do the same, pulling up his phone’s inbox and making note of the five new emails that had accumulated over the last two days.

Boy, wasn’t he Mr. Popular.

He deleted everything except for one, which happened to be the all-users invitation to drinks the next night at the local bar. He skimmed over the details, realizing that it had come from Commander Morrison only a few hours ago, and paused to consider this.

“Tomorrow night was Jack’s idea?” Jesse asked, and Gabe looked up from his phone with a confused ‘ _hmm?’_ “Drinks at the bar tomorrow. Jack was the one who invited everyone?”

“Oh, yeah. It was his idea. He’s renting out the bar so we don’t have to deal with gawking civilians for the evening, too.”

“That’s…uncharacteristically nice of him.”

Gabe’s eyes shined with laughter but he stifled any noise, glancing back to the hallway where Jesse had last seen Jack go into the closed room. He turned back to the gunslinger, voice a bit quieter than it had been. “He can be nice sometimes.”

“What, can’t have him overhearing that he’s a nice guy?” Jesse joked.

“Nope. Too many compliments will go to his head.” Gabe agreed. “He doesn’t really have a sense of humor, and tends to have a stick up his ass most of the time, but occasionally he can be fun.”

“You make him sound like the life of the party.”

“You say that now, but wait until he gets a few beers in him. Guy’s a lightweight and _completely_ different when drunk.” Gabe responded, shooting a pointed glance down the hallway as the door opened and Jack stepped out, into earshot. Jesse glanced over his shoulder to look, then turned back around and met Gabe’s eyes.

“Now that’s a sight I’ll have to see,” the gunslinger promised quietly, tapping out an rsvp on his screen and sending the response. “But I’m gonna blame you if I’m not thoroughly entertained.”

Gabe’s lips quirked up into a satisfied smile. “Deal.”

 

\---

 

The rest of the flight home was relaxing and otherwise uneventful. Gabe eventually fell asleep for an hour on the couch, prompting Jesse to lean over and carefully turn his phone to silent before sending him a half-hour’s worth of spam texts. When the carrier finally landed on the strip outside of base sometime past midnight, Gabe’s phone would have 115 unread text messages from Jesse McCree, and the gunslinger would have vaulted himself off the couch and to his locker to gather his belongings before Gabe managed to rouse himself.

They disembarked, Jesse grateful for the familiar tarmac greeting, and were escorted directly to their group and individual debriefings while the rest of the flight crew and guards unloaded the crates and prisoners. Jesse zoned out during most of the meeting, mind wandering over the events of the mission and replaying the flight back, and wondered about the young Deadlock hostage in interrogation. Gabe would be heading down there at some point today, probably right after the debriefings, to sit and meet with them.

Jesse wondered if he’d be allowed to watch from the other side of the one-way mirror, then debated whether or not he’d actually want to. Gabe’s earlier reassurance that he would _just be talking_ repeated itself, and although it soothed his worries slightly, he felt like it might hit too close to his own experiences to be worth it. Making up his mind, he promised himself some dinner and then sleep, which he figured he could do despite his five-hour nap on the way back. He could find time to hang out with Gabe in the morning.

Everyone worked to retell the entire series of events from the morning of to the moment they boarded the flight home, sparing no detail. He was asked to give a statement on Reaper’s near-death experience (was it still counted as near-death if he actually was considered dead at one point?) as well as confirm some information surrounding Hawthorne and his own subsequent death. After what seemed like hours, finally the call was made that this was all the information needed and that the team was dismissed.

Jesse had never seen them file out of the conference room so fast.

The hallways were only half-lit due to the night lighting schedule, and the team dispersed into the dim corridors like quiet, tired ghosts. Jesse had half a mind to go straight to his room and fall face-first into bed, and in fact he might have done so, if Jack didn’t wander across his path as everyone went their separate ways. Jesse gave a polite nod to his commander, intending to pause and let him pass by, but Jack slowed his pace to match the gunslinger’s and walked alongside him, striking up a friendly conversation as he did so.

“Will you be at the bar tomorrow night?”

Jesse glanced at him, considering correcting him that ‘tomorrow’ night was technically today, but decided against it. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Pretty sure I replied to your email, too?”

Jack shrugged. “You did. But you know sometimes you rsvp out of politeness but then don’t show up.” Jesse didn’t know whether Jack meant ‘you’ as in him specifically, or a general use of the word, but he felt a small twinge of guilt regardless. “Just wanted to make sure you were going to come. You’re the reason why we’re celebrating, really.”

Jesse knitted his eyebrows and turned his head to give his commander a confused look. “What’d’ya mean?”

“To thank you for saving Gabriel, obviously. We almost lost a team member today—we would have, if it hadn’t been for you.”

Jesse felt his cheeks heating up and he looked down, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He could go for a cigar right now, but he knew they didn’t like it when he smoked inside. “Well shucks, it ain’t that big of a deal. Mercy revived him, anyhow, she did most of the work. I just happened to be there.”

Jack lifted an arm to give Jesse’s shoulder a firm pat, startling the gunslinger. “Right place at the right time, McCree. We’re all very grateful—myself especially.”

Jesse wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, feeling a little uncomfortable under the compliment for doing something that anyone in his position would have done. He shrugged, looping his thumbs through his belt loops. “Just doing my job, commander. I’m glad he’s safe, too.”

Jack was silent for a moment beside him as they made their way down the hallway, before speaking up again. “You know, you don’t call me commander too often.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows, not sure what to make of the statement. “Naw, I guess not. Sorry. I don’t mean no disrespect, if that’s what—”

“No, it’s fine. You’re not disrespectful,” Jack assured him, and Jesse shot him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge the conversation. “Just something I noticed, is all, compared to everyone else. Is it because you came in from Blackwatch?”

Jesse mulled the possibility over in his head, trying to recount all the times when he’d ever referred to Jack. He supposed he didn’t call him commander to his face too often, although there were smatterings of ‘sir’s and ‘Morrison’s on occasion. He tilted his head, considering this. “I s’ppose. I respect you, commander, but I’m just…not used to you.”

He was halfway through backtracking and trying to re-explain his words, but Jack just nodded knowingly. “You spent a long time taking orders from Reyes. That’s a hard habit to kick.”

“I’ve been here almost as long as I was in Blackwatch,” Jesse pointed out. Jack just shrugged.

“First loyalties are always the strongest, and having Reyes take you under his wing when he did would be hard to move past, I’m sure. It’s obvious you still respect him as your superior.”

_Respect, sure._ _That’s all that was at play here._ “Again, no disrespect— I admire your leadership, too. I just…don’t show it as much, is all. But I can make more of an effort, if you’d like?”

Jack laughed, lightening the tone just a bit and putting Jesse slightly more at-ease. “You’re fine, McCree, This isn’t a reprimand. I guess I’m just curious about your and Gabriel’s relationship.”

Jesse felt his stride falter just a bit and he took an extra step to catch up. Their relationship? “I think you misunderstand, sir, Gabe and I aren’t in a relationship,” he tried to explain, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“That’s not what I meant, although I’m interested in the fact that was your assumption.” Jesse tucked his chin until the brim of his hat was hiding his face from Jack’s amused look. “I just meant, I’m curious about how you two get along so well. There’s a lot of history there between the two of you.”

“No more than anyone else from Blackwatch would have,” Jesse argued weakly, knowing full-well that he and Gabe got along like a house on fire, despite their at-odds start when he was first brought in. No one else on the team had been even remotely as close as they were. “Blackwatch had a different atmosphere than it does here. It was real easy to get close to your teammates.”

“Even your commander?”

“Well, yeah, he was a teammate too,” Jesse shrugged, trying to piece together Jack’s curiosity. “We all worked together, it wasn’t like he was some pencil-pusher who gave us orders and then sat in his office while we did the hard work.”

“Was that what you were expecting when you first joined? When Gabriel had you in for interrogation he said you’d fit in well with Blackwatch.”

Jesse cracked a small grin, remembering the exchange. “I said I hated authority and wouldn’t be caught dead takin’ orders from some yellow-bellied suit. He said perfect, I could start that evenin’.”

“A good call on his part.”

“Yeah,” Jesse agreed fondly. “Glad he saw somethin’ in me—gave me the chance to make somethin’ of myself.”

“Sounds like you owe him a lot?”

“I do. Hope I’ve been able to repay him after all this time, too.”

“I’m sure you have. He’s appreciative of what you’ve done for him, you know.”

Jesse glanced over at Jack. “He tell you that himself?” He joked.

“Sure did.”

“Oh. Huh.” Jesse was slightly taken aback, although not outright surprised— he just hadn’t been expecting to hear that Gabe had said something so honestly. He kept up with Jack’s strides for a few steps, not sure how to respond, but fortunately Jack spoke up, stifling a yawn as they neared an intersection in the hallway before Jesse had a chance to mull over his own awkward silence.

“I’ve got to head down to the interrogation room to meet with Gabriel and the detainees, but you should get some rest. I’ll see you around, McCree.”

The gunslinger waved a hand as Jack split off and headed down the other hallway, fitting in a quick “later, commander,” before Jack was out of earshot. Jesse found himself standing in the crossroads of the dim hallway for a moment, weighing the option of going to get food from the kitchen, before turning and heading towards his room for some sleep instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I'm feeling like "just fuck already" but I wrote a total of 9,700 words for this chapter and then split it up into two separate ones and the second half still isn't done yet so we'll get there eventually. Trying to keep this slow burn slow but I'm getting impatient myself. :^)


	7. Chapter 7 [porn]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of the porn! McCree masturbation scene towards the beginning.

The problem with going to bed after taking a five-hour nap is that it’s hard to fall asleep.

Despite his persistent physical exhaustion, dead weight that made his arms and legs heavy and limp as soon as his body hit the soft mattress, the gunslinger’s mind was wide awake. He lay in his room, the comforter tossed to the bottom of his bed and the top sheet tangled around his legs, staring at the darkness of his ceiling.

He guessed it was about 3 or 4 am, although he was too determined to fall asleep to turn his head and glance at the display of the clock on his nightside table. He figured if he laid still for long enough, his body would assume he was already asleep and he’d be able to drift off.

In the quiet of his room, Jesse’s soft, steady breathing seemed loud to his own ears.

He wondered briefly if anyone else was awake, although he figured that they had all probably fallen asleep as soon as they got back to their rooms. After all, he had been the only one to nap on the flight home, and they had all gone through the same physical exertion on the mission as he had. As far as he knew, he was most likely the only person in the whole building still conscious—he figured even the Deadlock hostages were probably sleeping in their cells until the administration had them transferred to prison tomorrow.

He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids negligibly blacker than the darkness obscuring his ceiling, willing his mind to shut off and let him timeskip through the night. Although it had been years since he had last experienced sleep anxiety, its familiar worry lurked just beneath the surface on nights like these, occupying the quiet stillness that descended after hours when the rest of the base had shut off their lights and left Jesse awake, alone.

It used to keep him up when he was younger, some kind of sick irony that fanned his mild distress into full-blown panic attacks when he realized he was the only one conscious. It would take him an hour to calm himself down enough to fall asleep—usually a process that involved physically wearing himself out through tears and hyperventilation, and eventually taught him to go to bed as early as possible to avoid still being awake when everyone else finally turned in for the night.

Now much older, Jesse wasn’t as easily gripped by the clutches of his anxiety once the sun had set. He recognized that his childhood world-view didn’t account for the fact that the whole world was awake on the other side of the globe, that there were people in his region who worked graveyard shifts and were up, spending the night like some kind of unknowing sentinels that allowed him the peace of knowing he wasn’t alone under the vast, open sky.

Still, sometimes the nights could still seem just a little too big and a little too lonely.

Jesse sighed, rolling over and kicking a leg until it was freed from the sheets, settling it back down on top of the covers so that he was half under and half out. He nestled his head back against his pillow and waited for the new position to re-signal his body that it was time to sleep.

Tomorrow he would start bright and early, sneaking in an hour at the gym before training started for the day. He was slated to work on hand-to-hand combat in the morning, everyone would run through a team-based mock mission, and then break for lunch and free time at noon. His afternoon was filled with target practice and reaction-training on his own time, although he and Hanzo tended to run the courses together. Free time at five, dinner around seven, and then Jack’s bar invitation started at ten.

All in all a busy day, but he was so used to the schedule at this point that it felt natural. He just had to make sure he was well-rested.

Seconds ticked by into minutes. He was getting bored waiting for sleep.

An itch started on his thigh and he willed himself to ignore it, but the tickle bothered him to the point that he grunted in irritation, reached down to scratch at it, then flipped over and re-settled himself in his bed. This tossing-and-turning routine was frustratingly familiar, and even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon.

He opened his eyes, glancing at the dim display of the clock that read 3:28 am. Well, now was as good a time as any to waste some time and jerk off. _Because why not_ , he thought to himself sardonically.

As if it was a chore, Jesse rolled over onto his back, tucking himself back under the top sheet as if he had to hide his deeds from the rest of the dark room. He lay his left hand absently over his chest, the other finding its way into his sweats and under the waistband of his boxers. He nudged his wrist further down until his fingers could easily wrap underneath the base of his dick, experimentally rubbing his thumb along the top to wake it up.

He gave a few short tugs, feeling his body slowly wake up at the touch and deciding that, yeah, he could probably get himself off if he tried. Settling into his decision, the gunslinger spread his legs a bit more to give him better access, then started working himself with slow and languid pumps to turn himself on.

His mind hadn’t quite caught up yet, still running through his schedule for tomorrow and re-playing a few scenes from that day, so he focused his attention on drawing up memories of porn to get himself in the mood. He’d watched a clip a while ago with a woman being fucked from behind in the shower, her lover’s hands circling around her hips to lay teasing fingers on the taut skin of her waist as his large cock thrust into her, visibly hitting the front of her insides and making a bulge as it did so. His mind skipped to another video he’d seen where a blindfolded man was being teased by his unseen partner, a ring around the base of his cock and balls and a vibrator just _barely_ pressed to its tip, which was slick with pre-cum. When he was finally allowed to reach orgasm, the satisfying climax spurts thick and long from his swollen head, coating his chest and stomach.

Another time, he found a set of .gifs involving a guy suspended with a rope harness at waist-level, getting fucked hard and vigorously up the ass. Something about the way his legs and arms were bound up and behind him made his position seem even more stimulating, and Jesse found himself momentarily imagining himself in that place, conjuring up false memories of what it might feel like.

He felt his cock start to harden in his hand and he tightened his grip, squeezing the warm shaft from base to tip with firm pressure. He closed his eyes, still pointless against the darkness of his room, and tipped his head back with a satisfying sigh against his pillow as he worked himself up.

Mind now actively into it, he began to craft a scene for himself, pulling bits and pieces from porn and fantasy and weaving them together into an ideal mental scenario to put himself in. His hand paused its tugging, fingers instead moving to the tip of his cock to tease the head while he imagined himself on his knees, face pressed into the ground, arms tied tightly against his back. He imagined someone behind him, lightly stroking his cock, letting Jesse get close enough that he could almost cum and then pulling away before he was far enough over the edge that he could spill. The teasing denial would have him begging shamelessly for the other person’s mercy, and whether he received it or not was completely up to them.

He wasn’t quite turned on enough that he could fall into the headspace of imagining that it was someone else’s hand touching him, rather than his own, so instead he gave himself a few more quick swipes over his slickening head before picking back up a quicker stroke over the whole length. He scaled back his fantasy, re-inventing it to better match his current pose and focusing on the details of his body. He bent his knees, tucking his feet close to his thighs and spreading his legs, canting his hips forward into his fingers. The hand on his chest slowly started drawing circles through his shirt, tickling the hair on his chest until he moved to his nipple and toyed it until it was perky through the fabric. He continued to jerk himself, and his breath hitched in his throat when he finally found a good angle, hitting his nerves just right to start pumping arousal deep into his swelling cock.

“ _There we go,_ ” he mumbled quietly as he chased the spot, letting his mind wander further into the fantasy.

His legs would be tied, ankles pinned against his thighs and keeping them bent and to either side of his exposed lap. He shifted his weight slightly on the bed so that his feet were tucked up tighter against his legs, imagining the tightness of ropes holding them in place against his struggling. His cock was fully-hard now, straining in the hot confines of his boxers under his sweatpants as his hand slicked pre-cum over its length.

He juggled the idea of pausing long enough to take his pants off, but instead opted to incorporate them into his fantasy. His captor was unrelenting and cruelly eager in their mission to take advantage of the gunslinger, having accosted him and tied him without even stripping him of his clothes first. They tied him up and then teased him through his pants until they’d gotten him to where he was now.

Yeah, that would work for him.

Jesse’s hand on his chest had stilled, and he instead adjusted himself so that his arm was under him behind his back, fingers splaying into his pants against his asscheeks. He massaged the muscle, then drew his fingers sharply against the skin before shifting himself awkwardly enough that he could reach around underneath himself and finger his balls. Chest bared upwards to allow his shoulder to bend behind him, Jesse could easily imagine that his arms were tied against his back, granting his captor full view of his exposed chest, which he knew was flushed red from his full-body arousal. He turned his head to the side, burying his face in the pillow, pretending he was too ashamed to see himself reduced to a trembling, begging mess at the person’s hands.

 _This_ was more like it.

He rocked forward into his hand, feeling his hips occasionally stutter as his nerves rutted blissfully against the warmth. His captor would be sitting just in front of him, watching Jesse squirm and blush at the ministrations. They’d run their hands over his thighs and tug him closer to themselves, leaning over him in the darkness like a terrifying looming figure and take advantage of Jesse’s inability to move, powerful body pinning him to the bed.

In the gunslinger’s mind, Reaper’s mask emerged out of the shadows in the space in front of him.

Jesse’s pace faltered and he sputtered to a stop, guilt and panic washing over him and ripping him from the scene. _This is not the time or place to be imagining that,_ he begged himself, turning his head to try and stubbornly avoid the thoughts. His cock twitched in his hand, as if questioning why he had stopped.

“ _Get out of here_ ,” Jesse hissed to his imagination, his voice hoarse and jarring against the quiet of the room. He tried to conjure up the earlier porn memories, but they seemed faint and the images didn’t form solidly enough in his mind to grab on to. Instead, Reaper’s mask bobbed back into view between the gunslinger’s legs, and Jesse reluctantly turned his interest to this new direction of events.

Reaper was terrifyingly _dominating_ in all the ways that Jesse knew could turn him on, perfectly suited for the role of his mysterious sexual captor.

_As long as I never tell anybody, right?_

He felt the guilt still gnawing at him but as soon as he hesitantly pumped his cock, his arousal washed it away. The warm pleasure, which had slowly been cooling away in his moment of confliction, returned and his dick throbbed in response. Jesse nuzzled his face further into the pillow, ashamed for real this time, as thoughts of Reaper’s imposing figure floated into his mind.

He allowed his mind to take control, watching the fantasy unfold before him. Reaper’s mass occupied the shadows beyond his splayed legs, dangerous and intimidating in all the ways that excited the gunslinger. He saw the wraith’s cold, sharp claws emerge from the darkness and rake down his thighs, sending goosebumps skittering across his skin at the touch and raising the hair on the back of his neck. Jesse let out a muffled pant against his pillow as he imagined Reaper leaning forward, towering above him and placing a gloved hand at his collarbone, pinning him down as the wraith’s other hand pumped his cock with a quickening pace.

Jesse’s hand had sped up to match his imagination—or maybe his imagination had imitated his own hand—and he could feel an orgasm beginning to pool in his stomach.

“ _Ah fuck,_ ” he whispered, imagining Reaper’s mask tilting with appreciation at the small mewl. Reaper’s hand would leave his collarbone, instead sliding to his mouth and tugging Jesse’s bottom lip down with his thumb. Almost on command, the gunslinger let out an open-mouthed pant, tongue hanging from his lips. He imagined he must look lewd, splayed out in his sheets, panting and drooling as his dick leaked pre-cum in his pants. He hoped Reaper would think he looked hot like this.

The fingers fondling his balls gave a firm tug, pulling them down and stretching the skin taut. The added warm burn flooded his senses with stimulation, and he felt his groin ache with the swelling arousal. Everything was starting to build, the sensations beginning to overwhelm his senses until every touch, every feeling, was interpreted as pleasure.

“Mmmmm—” he groaned croakily, eyebrows drawing together. His hand, now slick with pre-cum, twisted over his cock in a rhythm quickly-approaching frenzied as his hips stuttered and bucked.

In his mind, Reaper’s mask bent down until it was inches from his face, Reaper’s hand gripping Jesse’s jaw and turning his head firmly to face him. The gunslinger opened his eyes, peering into the darkness as if half-expecting the wraith to actually be there above him, before he shut them tight and delved back into the fantasy. He tipped his head forward as he imagined Reaper’s fingers releasing his face, ghosting up to the alabaster mask before slipping underneath and tugging it upwards to reveal the whites of his canines, bared in a smirk.

_Oh shit, Gabe—_

He may have said the words out loud, but if he did they were swallowed by his guttural moan as his hips jerked forward, rutting his straining cock into his hand as hot cum pulsed from the head and smeared down his fingers, instantly soaking his boxers through. His moan turned to a whine as the muscles in his thighs clenched, riding out his orgasm until his balls finished squeezing and his body collapsed in exhaustion into his sweat-damp sheets.

There was a dull pressure in his ears and his mind was fuzzy, and he lay panting in bed for a minute, letting his senses come back to him one by one as he floated in the afterglow. His chest heaved with his breathing, and he slowly focused his efforts on drawing in long, deep breaths to slow his racing heartrate. Eventually, he found the energy to pull his arm out from underneath him, rolling his shoulder to get rid of the stiffness.

“Christ, Jesse,” he muttered to himself, half in bliss and half in disappointment. The sticky mess in his boxers was still there, slowly drying on his fingers, and he retrieved his hand from his pants, awkwardly adjusting his boxers so they weren’t clinging so closely. Keeping his messy hand at a distance, he heaved a sigh and pushed himself up on the bed, swinging off the edge and shuffling to the bathroom to discard his soiled pants in favor of a shower and some new clothes.

A quick hop in the shower left him warm and clean, and he tossed his soiled laundry in the hamper before pulling out new clothes from his dresser to slip into. As he turned off the bathroom light, heading back towards his bed, he noticed the notification light on his phone was flashing. Curious, he hit the wake button, glancing at the messages bar at the top of the screen.

_2 new messages from Gabe_

Jesse glanced at the clock—a dumb move, as his phone displayed the time to him too—wondering if Gabe had sent him something earlier in the day that his phone had only just received now. He hopped into bed, curling up by his pillow with his phone and swiping his screen open to reveal his messages.

               Gabe [3:42 am]: Is that you running the shower in the middle of the fucking night?  
               Gabe [3:42 am]: Because if so, I made mac and cheese in the kitchen and you’re invited to come have some.

Jesse blinked at his phone, trying to parse together the chain of events that had led to Gabe texting him at 3:40 in the morning. In the back of his mind, he remembered his guilty fantasy, knowing that _this_ Gabe wasn’t the same one Jesse had drawn up in his mind to get himself off, but the fact that the two events had happened so close together briefly panicked him, wondering if somehow Gabe _knew._

He adjusted himself so he was propped up on his elbow, pulling up his phone’s keyboard and typing out a response.

                Jesse [3:53 am]: yeah, sorry, didnt mean to wake you up  
                Jesse [3:53 am]: i didnt know you could hear the shower from your room??  
                Jesse [3:54 am]: why are you eating mac n cheese at 4 am

There was about a minute of no response, and Jesse wondered if Gabe had gone to bed in the ten minutes that Jesse hadn’t responded while he was showering. But, a few seconds later his phone vibrated, and he glanced down to read Gabe’s reply.

               Gabe [3:55 am]: Not from my room, but you can hear the plumbing pipes from the kitchen if it’s quiet enough.  
               Gabe [3:55 am]: And because I was hungry. Why else do you eat food.

Jesse huffed in quiet laughter, tapping out his reply.

               Jesse [3:55 am]: shoot, i had no idea  
               Jesse [3:55 am]: usually im not in the kitchen when its that quiet, i guess.  
               Jesse [3:55 am]: are you still there??  
               Jesse [3:55 am]: in the kitchen i mean  
  
               Gabe [3:55 am]: Yeah, I’m still here.

               Jesse [3:55 am]: is there still food

               Gabe [3:56 am]: I didn’t eat an entire pot of mac and cheese if that’s what you’re asking.

Jesse grinned at his screen, stifling a yawn as he rolled out of bed for the second time in half an hour. He wandered to his door, barefoot and contemplating putting on socks, but ultimately decided to not to put anything else on.

               Jesse [3:56 am]: can never be too sure  
               Jesse [3:56 am]: ill be there in a sec

He pulled his door open and stepped out into the dim hallway, closing his door softly behind him before padding quietly down the hall towards the stairs. He reached the landing, taking the steps two at a time down one flight until he reached the commons corridor, turning down the hall where the warm glow of the kitchen’s light flooded out into the open floorplan across the hallway.

He peered around the corner, cataloging the environment as he took it in. The tv in the lounge was on, its changing scenes casting flickering blue light across the nearby surfaces. Gabe was curled up on the couch, almost lost in the blanket wrapped around him, an empty bowl sitting on the coffee table in front of him. The overhead light was on above the stovetop, the yellow glow illuminating the pot still sitting on the front left burner like heavenlight.

Jesse’s stomach growled and he remembered he hadn’t eaten since a granola bar at some point on the flight home.

“The stove’s on low, so hopefully it’ll still be warm.” Gabe piped up from the couch, his eyes glued to the tv screen. Jesse wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a clean bowl from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer. He pulled off the lid from the pot, peering in and inspecting the macaroni with a careful prod of the serving spoon, before serving himself half a bowl’s-worth. He replaced the lid and turned off the stove, making his way over to Gabe on the couch.

“What’re you doing still up, anyway?” Gabe asked as Jesse climbed onto the couch, perching on the armrest across from Gabe with his feet on the seat cushions. The gunslinger took a bite of his macaroni, swallowing his embarrassment along with the creamy cheese.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he offered simply, shrugging. Gabe nodded understandingly, reaching out from under his blankets for the remote on the coffee table to change the channel on the muted tv.

“Figures, considering the nap you took on the way home. It probably messed up your sleep cycle for the next day.”

“Haha, yeeeeah,” the gunslinger admitted, not regretting the decision despite its consequences. “What about you? What’s got Gabriel Reyes awake at 4 in the mornin’?”

 Gabe sighed, settling himself back against the couch and deeper into his blanket bundle. “I only just got out of interrogation a little while ago. Needed something to eat first before I could go to bed.”

 “It took that long to talk to them?” Jesse asked, taking another bite of macaroni with a frown. “I thought you’d be in and out in maybe half an hour.”

Gabe laughed. “Hell no. What, you think convicts just willingly give up information the first time you ask?”

Jesse pouted sourly, poking the contents of his bowl with the tip of his spoon while he gathered another bite. “No,” he mumbled.

“Well there you go. Probably took me a full hour just to get through to the younger one you were so fond of.”

Jesse perked up a bit at the mention of the young Deadlock member. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Gabe, pausing his spoon to his lips before eating the bite. “How’d he do?”

“He was pretty feisty. Didn’t want to hear anything I had to say, didn’t want to answer any questions, and kept singing _99 bottles of beer on the wall_. Eventually I started talking to him about what he could expect from life in prison and that seemed to scare him. He didn’t know too much, but what he could tell me was helpful at least.”

Jesse watched him expectantly, and Gabe seemed to pick up on the silent question. “We offered him a reduced sentence and extended parole for cooperating. He’ll be out in five years.”

The gunslinger visibly relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “You think he’ll stay out of trouble when he gets out?”

Gabe’s mouth quirked up into half a smile. “I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t think he would.”

“Thanks for that. I’m sorry you had to spend so long dealin’ with ‘em, though.”

“Compared to a _certain someone_ , this was nothing. You know you made me miss two meals babysitting your sorry ass when we first brought you in?”

Jesse laughed awkwardly, shoving another spoonful of mac n cheese into his mouth. “You didn’t feed me during that time either, if I recall. We were both starvin’ each other out.”

Gabe let out a soft _hmph_ , and Jesse snuck a glance at his face to read his expression. The other man still seemed to be lightly smiling. “ _You_ may have been starving, I was only mildly inconvenienced. I’m sure a well-fed soldier could hold out longer than a scrawny twenty-three-year-old outlaw.”

It was Jesse’s turn to humph, and he did so with as much sass and indignation as he could muster. “I ain’t scrawny.”

“Well not _now_ , you aren’t,” Gabe clarified flatly. “But you were when we first picked you up. You’ve filled out since then.” He seemed to reconsider his words, glancing away under Jesse’s sharp gaze. “Joining Overwatch did you good.”

The gunslinger looked away, carefully focused on fitting as many pasta shells onto his spoon as he could at once. “Thanks for takin’ pity on me. I know I’ve said it before, but I really do mean it.”

Gabe scoffed, flipping the channel on the tv again now that the late-night gameshow he had been watching switched to commercial. “I didn’t pity you, Jesse. I could tell that you wanted something more. You wanted to be a hero.”

The gunslinger considered this a moment, and then shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

“I mean, yeah. To _some_ degree, we all want to be heroes, with a few exceptions. You wanted to be a movie-type hero,” Gabe paused, and Jesse nodded in admittance. “You were overly-dramatic as it was, I figured we might as well offer you somewhere productive to channel it.”

“Is that why you let me keep my garb?”

Gabe laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners and making Jesse’s own face break out in a smile. “You sulked like a dog missing its owner when we told you your hat wasn’t Blackwatch standard. I think we managed to put up with it for, what, twenty hours before we gave in?” The gunslinger laughed and agreed, remembering his first day in Blackwatch. “You seemed much happier with it on, anyway, so I guess that’s why we let you keep it. You started to settle in after that, so no harm done.”

They were silent a moment, the gunslinger taking another thoughtful bite of his food as he let the comfortable quiet draw out, punctuated by the occasional _ting_ of his spoon against the ceramic bowl. Eventually, he spoke up.

“Hey, Gabe?”

Gabe had gone back to watching the television, having settled on following along with the closed captions for an infomercial. “Hmm?”

“Thanks for lookin’ out for me. Way back then, and today, and just in general too, I guess. I owe you a lot.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Aw come on, after everything you’ve done for me—”

“Done for _you_? Hell, Jesse, after everything you’ve done for _me_ I feel like I’m the one who owes you. I was about to quit after they disbanded Blackwatch, but you made staying in this place tolerable.”

“I thought you had always planned to stay? I followed you to Overwatch after the merge cause I thought that’s where you’d be doing.”

Gabe turned to him, worry creasing his face.  “You what?”

“I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, didn’t I? Y’all’re my only family, really. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Jesse,” Gabe frowned, panic tingeing his voice and making Jesse’s heart twist. “You could have gone anywhere. Been anyone, done anything. Why would you want to throw that all away just to—”

“I didn’t throw anythin’ away! I stayed ‘cause I wanted to. I felt like I owed it to you to stick with you, after all that we’d been through.”

“There you go again with the _owe_ thing. I hope that’s not what you feel our friendship is based on?”

That comment made the gunslinger pause in shock, taken aback by the suggestion. “Are you askin’ if I’m your friend cause I feel like I’m in debt to you…?”

Gabe didn’t say anything, but his half shrug and avoidance of eye contact as he stared back hotly at the flickering tv screen was all the response that Jesse needed. The gunslinger vaguely remembered his conversation in the hall with Jack earlier— the commander had asked about Jesse and Gabe’s relationship, and he recalled that he had mentioned he felt like he owed a lot to Gabe. He wondered if Jack had mentioned anything on the matter.

Jesse carefully leaned down to set his almost-empty bowl on the coffee table, holding his gaze on Gabe’s face. He slipped down off of the armrest onto the seat cushions, among Gabe’s blanket nest.

“God no, of course not. Gabe, why would you even think that?” He asked softly, almost hurt by the implication. “I’m your friend because I want to be. Trust me partner, if I wanted to leave, I would have.”

Gabe’s eyes were still fixed on the tv, but he was no longer scanning the closed captions, instead staring almost unseeingly at the screen.

“ _Did_ you ever want to leave?”

“Well, a long time ago maybe, yeah, but—”

“But you didn’t, though. What changed your mind to make you stay?”

Jesse considered the question, worrying the hem of Gabe’s blanket with his fingers as he worded his answer. “Blackwatch eventually felt right to me. You became my home. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere you weren’t.”

There was a long silence, not necessarily awkward but Jesse eventually found himself wishing Gabe would say something, give him _some_ kind of indication as to how he was feeling. Jack’s conversation with him floated back to his mind, as did Ana’s. Gabe couldn’t possibly think that Jesse was still his friend because he felt indebted to him, right? Jesse didn’t feel like he was bound by obligation to stay by Gabe’s side. _But why did he feel like he couldn’t bear to leave it?_

Finally, Gabe gave him the slyest of sideglances, mouth set in the barest hint of an appreciative smile. “That’s very gay of you, Jesse. Thanks.”

The gunslinger sputtered. “I ain’t even sure what that’s supposed to mean. You aren’t trying to insult me, right, ‘cause if so I expected better from you—”

“No, I meant that was literally a very homosexual thing of you to say, and I appreciate the sentiment.” Gabe cut him off, correcting the misunderstanding. “And I feel the same.”

Jesse smiled to himself, small and crooked as he tucked his legs under the blanket to join Gabe’s trapped body heat between the layers. A comfortable silence fell between them for a few minutes as the infomercial switched to a new product, advertising a set of cups that wouldn’t spill if bumped. The gunslinger’s heart was warm with affection, bubbling out in barely-contained giggles at the incompetent actor paid to spill a glass of juice on himself on screen.

“So you were close to quittin’, huh?” Jesse asked, curiosity casually returning him to earlier in their conversation. Gabe stifled a yawn and reached his hands above his head to stretch, before scooting himself down farther into the couch and bumping Jesse’s legs with his own.

“Yeah.”

“What made _you_ decide to stay?” The gunslinger pressed.

Gabe’s eyes left the television, glancing off into a darkened corner of the room as if he was thinking. Jesse patiently waited for an answer in the silence.

“It’s hard to say, really,” Gabe started, trailing off before trying to elaborate. “I felt like if I left, I would be giving up. I had to stay to show them that it didn’t get to me, that I wasn’t immature enough that I’d storm out.”

“It must have been a real hard decision to make,” Jesse sympathized, earning a nod and a shrug from Gabe.

“It was. They picked me over for Jack when they chose the face of Overwatch, and I always felt like they gave me Blackwatch as a consolation prize. But I did my damn best with it and, honestly I did a _damn_ good job. It was a slap in the face when they told me they no longer needed us.”

“And they didn’t give you a command position in Overwatch when they merged the two?”

Gabe laughed sharply, shooting him a salty grin. “The public was outraged when they found out about Blackwatch and what we did. There’s no way they would think lightly of its commander being offered a high-ranking position in Overwatch. You have to understand that everything this organization does is to maintain our public image, and if that means looking like it cut ties with its black ops division, then so be it.”

Jesse tilted his head against the back of the couch. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. At least internally they still treat me with respect. I just don’t have an official commanding title.”

“S’alright, _jefe_ , you’re still commander to me.”

Gabe chuckled again, this time less salty. “Jack mentioned you said that. He found it funny that you’ve had such a hard time coming to terms with him being your boss.”

Jesse felt his face redden as he realized that Jack _had_ shared their conversation. How much had he relayed to Gabe? Why had it come up in the first place? “I didn’t say I had a _hard_ time with it,” he argued, trying to explain himself to Gabe’s amused attitude. “Just that I’m used to your style of leadership, is all.”

“I know. I’ve tried to explain that to him before.”

“Have you? Why has that come up. Why did he even bring this up?”

“Commanders gossip, Jesse,” Gabe states, like that’s supposed to explain everything. “We’ve known one another for a _very_ long time. It’s not uncommon for us to talk.”

“Yeah, but why would you talk about whether I respect him or not?”

“Because I’m trying to help him understand you better. He’s got to learn how to work with the different styles of his teammates. Even _you_ have to admit you’re a bit of a hard spirit to tame, sometimes. He’s not used to that kind of…stubbornness.”

“Is that why he was bein’ all weird after the mission today? I thought for sure he was gonna chew me out for runnin’ off on my own, but instead he told me good job.”

“Yeah, I told him you respond best to encouragement. If he encourages you more often, you’ll start to respect him more, and eventually will be more willing to see him as your commanding officer. It’s a two-way street.”

Jesse blinked across the couch at Gabe, not sure where to even start. “Did Ana psychoanalyze me or somethin’ when I wasn’t payin’ attention?” He sputtered. “Cause I’m mildly worried about how you came to that conclusion.”

 “No eval needed. It’s just what I learned when working with you in Blackwatch. Everyone responds to different things, you happen to respond best to praise.”

“That sounds like it’s some kind of formula. Insert praise, receive respect.”

 “Am I wrong, though?” Gabe challenged, and Jesse’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“Well…no, I guess not,” he faltered, still shocked at how _dead on_ Gabe’s assessment of his motivation was. “So what, do you know everyone’s secret keys to success? Does Jack have one?”

“Sure he does. Jack wants everyone to like him. Hence why he came to me to ask about how to get on better terms with you.”

“We weren’t on bad terms,”

“Maybe not, but he didn’t feel like you liked him as much as he’d hoped.”

“Hmm. Now I feel kinda bad.”

“Don’t. He can handle it.”

“What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“What’s your motivator?”

Gabe tilted his head to the side in Jesse’s direction. “It’s harder to determine it for yourself,” he admitted, earning a disappointed _aww_ from Jesse. “But it seems to be something along the lines of challenging assumptions.”

Jesse seemed confused, and Gabe graciously elaborated. “Like, I’ll do something out of spite just because someone doesn’t expect me to be able to. For example: tell me I can’t lead Overwatch and shove me to the side with its black-ops little brother? _Fine._ I’ll be the best damn black-ops commander you’ve ever seen.”

“So you’re just a stubborn, spiteful asshole.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Jesse laughed. “That sounds like a mighty unhealthy complex, partner. It's accurate, though.”

Gabe shrugged, changing the tv station again and channel surfing through the early-morning programs. “Maybe. But it’s one hell of a motivator. Shit, _death_ couldn’t even stop me.”

“True.”

Gabe yawned again, tossing the remote uselessly on top of the pile of blankets after reluctantly cycling back around to the original channel he had been on. He glanced at his phone, tapping the button to illuminate the LCD display and check the time.

“You getting’ tired?”

Gabe sat up, stretching his arms behind him and clasping his fingers together as he rolled his shoulders. “Unfortunately, yeah. I’ll probably just sleep here til the morning, it’s not worth going all the way back to my room.”

“Alright. I’ll let you get some rest, then.”

“Jesse, wait,” Gabe’s hand swung around to pat the blanket over top of his legs, stopping the gunslinger as he made a move to get up. “You can stay here if you want. I don’t mind.”

“You sure? I wouldn’t want to cramp the couch space.”

Gabe snorted indignantly. “I wouldn’t have offered if it was going to bother me,” he insisted, tucking his feet closer to himself to give Jesse a bit more room to wiggle down under the blanket.

“Well shucks, that’s mighty kind of you,” Jesse thanked, pulling his phone from his pocket and setting it on the coffee table next to his nearly-finished bowl of food. Gabe did the same, and placed the remote down too after turning off the tv, before turning on his side and settling in. Jesse found some room to curl himself into, knees tucked in with Gabe’s, and nestled himself against the armrest.

“You want me to turn off the kitchen light?” Jesse asked, remembering the dim yellow glow that was still on over the stove.

“Only if it’s bothering you,” Gabe sighed, clearly already falling asleep now that he had allowed his eyes to close in the quiet room.

“I’ll leave it on, then,” Jesse decided quietly, not so much because it didn’t bother him, but because he didn’t want to have to get up and disturb Gabe who already looked halfway to sleep. He watched the man’s chest rise and fall under the blankets for a few moments, appreciative of the sight and wishing that this memory would permanently overwrite the horrifying one during the mission when he had seen Gabe’s chest _stop_.

“Sweet dreams, Jesse,” Gabe mumbled.

Jesse reluctantly closed his eyes and smiled, nuzzling his face against the armrest. He was still able to feel Gabe’s heartbeat faintly in his thighs where Jesse’s legs were pressed close, and focused on the rhythm of Gabe’s heart until he eventually dozed off until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written fanfiction since 2006, so I hope you enjoy! I'll update once a week, maybe more if I get ahead of myself. Follow me on tumblr at [twistedCaliber](http://twistedcaliber.tumblr.com)(main blog) or [skullgunnery](http://skullgunnery.tumblr.com)(nsfw sideblog) if you'd like to chat! I'm open to suggestions and requests for what to include, so let me know if there's something you're hoping to see and I'll see what I can do! :3 I'll probably also be drawing fanart because I fucking can and I DO WHAT I WANT.....
> 
> A very special thanks to docfics for their help and support! And many thanks to you, friends, for reading!


End file.
